


Off the Books

by KNSkns



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KNSkns/pseuds/KNSkns
Summary: Everyone has their side of the story, so let's hear yours. (Very) long story about the (entire) series, including (lots and lots) of spoilers.





	Off the Books

Disclaimer: Not mine, but thanks for checking. If you recognize it, then it isn't mine.  
Bytheways: Thanks to the beta team for taking care of this. The awful Spanish translation is entirely my fault.  
(originally published 12-02-13.)

I. What She Said

Driving in New Your City could never be described as fun. Sometimes it was worse than driving around London or Milan, which were her two least favorite cities for driving. But, at least this city had a decent mass-transit system. Sort of.

There really wasn't a good way to get a riffle on the subway. It could be done, of course, but it was messy and time consuming and just not fun. And trying to smuggle an entire shipment? Forget about it.

Having a private vehicle was necessary. On the plus side: lots of drivers meant lots of cars meant lots of opportunities to switch vehicles. If it was summer, she might like a nice sports car, maybe a convertible. On the clearest, most sunny day, the people here were awful drivers – so in the winter, when there was ice and snow, one really needed an SUV.

Whatever the transportation issues, they were worth living here. She had a killer flat. Big windows with great city views, hardwood floors, completely remodeled kitchen and bathrooms. With access to so many art galleries, she was able to have a nice collection of modern art. A port city meant the ability to have her favorite foods from around Europe in her fridge at all times. And her place had a great location: easily accessible to all forms of entertainment.

The city was never closed. Galleries, shopping, museums, night clubs, theater, more shopping. Whatever she was in the mood for, the city had it available. All kinds of fun to be had.

Moving here had been a risk, a huge change, a kind of jumping off a bridge into unknown water. She'd been all around Europe, collecting snowglobes as she went along. She was used to showing up in new places, learning how to blend with the locals. It was a fun challenge. But she'd always been able to go home, back to Ireland, back to her family and a place she could just be herself, her real voice and language and friends. That was pretty much gone now, thanks to some of her associates. And multinational government agencies. Damn age of computers.

Getting to the states? Not so much fun. She'd repaid Armand, but he occasionally still contacted her: a phone call, and unexpected visit in a cafe. Repaid, yes – even, no. At least, not by his thinking. She'd spent an unreasonable amount of time convincing him to go away. He didn't like being told no, and she suspected that was why he kept showing up. Man didn't know when to quit. And, he had given her a hand when she really, really needed it. For a price, of course – but everything had a price, anyway.

So life after the army wasn't bad. It was a lot less bad than she'd expected it to be. Different, yes – definitely different. She still did many of the same things, used many of the same skills she'd spent almost all of her life developing. When she considered it overall, life might actually be better on this side of the pond.

Except for a few not-so-small details. Family: the smell of her mother's cooking, bickering with her brothers. Friends: men and women she'd grown up with, been around for years and years. Country: the countryside, the sky over the sea. Familiar language, style, geography.

Anyway, life here wasn't bad. It was a good life, to be honest.

[]

It was starting to get cold in the mornings and evenings, that time of year when she felt like changing clothes several times a day just to keep up with the weather. The Christmas sales had started before Thanksgiving, almost before Halloween. Business was great: handgun sales always went up around the holidays. Lots of unhappy people around the holidays. Gotta love American consumerism.

She hated getting up early in the morning, but for the kind of money this gig paid, she did it. Not fun, but profitable. And it was only now ten in the morning. She might go back to bed, get up later in the evening. There was a play she'd wanted to see for awhile; maybe she'd go tonight. It was late notice, but she knew a guy or two or six who might want to take her out. Dinner, too, of course (someplace nice.)

When her phone rang, she didn't recognize the number, not even the area code. But this was New York, and people brought their phones from whatever part of America they came from. She almost let it go to voicemail, answered at the last minute.

"Hello?"

"Buenos dias," a pleasant woman's voice said. "¿Hablas Espanol?" [Good morning. Do you speak Spanish?]

"Si. Buenos dias," Fiona answered. "¿Que puedo hacer por ti?" [Yes. Good morning. What can I do for you?]

"Mi nombre es Maria, y lo hago limpieza aqui el Hotel Shorline en Miami," the woman explained. "Hay un hombre aqui, el estado durmiendo aqui durante unos dias. Se ve muy enfermo, ¿tal vez necesita un medico? Mire atraves de su cartera, en busca de alguien a quien llamar. Habia el numero que figura como contacto de emergencia." [My name is Maria, and I do housekeeping down here at the Shorline Hotel in Miami. There's a man here, he's been sleeping here for a few days. He looks very sick, maybe needs a doctor? I looked through his wallet, looking for someone to help him. He had your number as an emergency contact.]

A man listing her as an emergency contact. That could be a lot of people. "¿Sabe su nombre?" [Do you know his name?]

The woman replied, "Se que su nombre es Michael." [I know his first name is Michael.]

She knew several men by that name. "¿Que aspecto tiene?" [What does he look like?]

"Un hombre blanco. El lleva un traje." [A white man. He's wearing a suit.]

That didn't help, still could be any number of people. "¿Como esta el clima alli hoy?" [How's the weather there today?] If it was warm, she might consider taking a small vacation, check it out, make her curious mind shut up. But if it was some kind of icky weather, she was just going to blow off the call and proceed with the day's plans.

"Soleado, como simpre." [Sunny, like always.]

"¿Calentar?" [Warm?]

"Hot. No me gusta usar mi uniforme en dias como este. Demasiada ropa." [Hot. I hate wearing my uniform on days like this. Too many clothes.]

Fiona unlocked her door, stepped into her flat, locked the door behind her. "¿Donde dijiste que te llabas de nuevo? Eso esta en Florida, ¿no?" [Where did you say you were calling from? That's in Florida, right?]

[]

The minute she walked off the plane, she knew two things: it was very hot, and very humid. Her hair was going to look great, and her skin was going to break out and make her look like she had the pox. Whoever this guy turned out to be – if he wasn't somebody important, she might have to shoot him. She didn't like wasting her time, or her nice skin.

She collected her bags and went out to airport long-term parking. A convertible – she definitely wanted a convertible. Apparently they were popular here, because she had a lot to choose from. She took one with a GPS (a necessity for driving in a new city.) The bill for the long-term parking was unfairly expensive. She pulled onto the road already pissed at the guy who had brought her down here.

[]

It was a cheap little hotel – having stayed in one many a time, she recognized a dump when she saw one. She was beginning to regret her decision. Talking to the desk clerk didn't make things better; she was supposed to be here for a vacation, not a gig, and it was annoying to need to change her accent and speech pattern just to get a damn extra key.

"Maria called me. I'm here for the guy who's been out of it for a few days. Can't believe he's done this again. I mean, really – how many times are we gonna do this?"

The young man smiled at her. "Oh yeah, the guy in 24B. Glad somebody came to bail him out. He's only paid up through tomorrow night. But you don't have a key? 'Cause I'm not supposed to hand out extras."

She laughed and gave him a little grin. "You want to keep his ass? That's fine with me."

Of course, when she had the key, it stuck in the lock and she spent so much time fighting with it that she almost decided to kick it in. Patience wasn't her thing. But the door surrendered before her patience gave out, so she went in to a tiny room, hideously decorated, ridiculously crowded with too much furniture (too many beds.)

And the man on one of those beds –

"Well, damn me to hell."

Michael McBride. AKA, Michael ten-thousand -other-names.

He was almost the last man she'd expected to find. Actually, he was the last man. Not-even-one-the list man. She'd have expected to find one of her brothers before him.

She quietly shut the door behind her, locked it.

This may not be as much fun as she'd anticipated.

She sat down in a chair beside the bed and looked at him. He was out cold, so he wouldn't mind. Not that she would care, anyway.

Where to start? She'd pretty much made her peace with not seeing him for the rest of her life. She'd finally accepted that gone was gone, no use trying anymore. Move on.

Or not.

It was hard to say if she'd rather kiss him or kill him. To be fair, it did look like someone had gotten to him first, as far as the beating was concerned: every inch of skin she could see was bruised or broken. Bruises on top of bruises weren't so effective. She'd have to think of another way to irritate him. Which was okay, because she was good at that.

But she was also tempted to lay down beside him, snuggle close, and pretend the last few years hadn't happened. She was also good at pretending.

Maybe not that good. . .

She hesitated, put a hand on his wrist to check his pulse (steady and regular.) Breathing even and unlabored. If he'd been too badly harmed, he'd already be dead. When she put a hand to his forehead, she told herself it was to check his temperature (no fever.) She didn't have an excuse for why she let her fingers pass over his cheek and jawline.

Why couldn't this have been someone else? She didn't need this mess. She had a good life – one she'd made of bits and pieces, maybe, but now it was a beautiful quilt. She should stand up, walk out, get back on a plane and go home. Pretend this had never happened.

She wasn't that good at pretending.

Goodbye, nice life.

The decision was made before it was really even considered. And it was a bad decision, she already knew that – but, well, there it was.

This was going to require some tactical planning. She wasn't going to kill him (not right now, anyway; maybe later.) She couldn't let him wake up and find her crying at his bedside, either.

He was out cold, so it was okay to cry for a few minutes. Quietly. Just enough so she wouldn't burst into tears the instant he opened his eyes. Later, when she was alone, she could do what she wanted.

Here she thought she'd done all her crying over this man. Dammit.

Focus. Focus on. . .

Payback. That sounded good. That was one of her favorite, possibly her very favorite emotion.

She looked at him and thought, maybe not her very favorite.

Focus.

She didn't want him dead, but bruised would be okay. Not physically – too late for that. There were a dozen other ways to get to him. For good, bad, or otherwise, she knew this man. He was obviously capable of surprising her – say, by disappearing in the middle of the night – but she still knew him.

She went through his wallet, found an ID card and a few other things, including a small paper listing her as an emergency contact.

She went back outside, sat down on the top step, and pulled out her phone. 4-1-1 was a girl's best friend. Well, a gun was a girl's best friend, but information was a close second.

"Hi, yes. In the greater Miami area. Non-business. Last name Westen, first name Madeline."

While she was scribbling down phone numbers on the back of the airport parking lot receipt, she noticed the car parked across the street. Two men inside, with binoculars, looking at her and the hotel room behind her. They were doing surveillance, and sucked at it. Or maybe they didn't care if they were seen. Maybe they wanted to be seen.

One thing was certain: they'd seen her. She should've been more careful, but she'd let her curiosity get the better of her. This could have been a trap. Still could be, knowing the kind of target the man in the hotel room behind her was. Probably weren't after her, or they would've already moved. Must be about him.

What a surprise.

[]

She waited and waited, but patience had never been her thing. She had a plan. And her feelings were locked down – the messy ones, anyway. Time to get the show on the road.

So many ways to start. Oh, so many choices.

Michael awoke with a start. Since he was facing the wall, she used her real voice to greet him, accent and all.

"You're a lucky man. Anyone with that many bruises – you look like you've fallen under a truck."

"Fiona – what the hell are you doing here?"

He recognized her as quickly as she had him. Without even looking at her, just hearing her voice. And, yes, he was supposed to have a good memory for his job, but she knew it was more than that. She caught his first look over his shoulder, recognized it instantly, the same way she'd recognized him.

This wasn't going to be easy, but it might be fun.

Not easy.

Fun.

[]

She almost caught him. Almost.

Maybe it was because she'd had time to make a plan, used surprise in her favor. Maybe it was because he'd had his ass kicked a few days before, was still recovering. Maybe it was because his life was turned upside down, and she just happened to be the one he was thinking might be able to make it stop spinning.

Or maybe it was something else, like it was for her.

She hoped he wasn't trying to play her. Even if he was – she could work with that.

There was a line between staying together and moving apart. It was one they'd always walked, almost since the beginning – now was no different. Some things never changed.

If she almost slipped at dinner, so did he. It was the first time they'd sat down to dinner in how long? And the last time, it hadn't ended so well. This time. . . She almost cried, but didn't. He almost apologized, but didn't.

Honesty didn't quite catch him. She resorted to other tactics: alcohol and memories (a great combination.) He was back to calling her "Fi" before the meal was half over. By the time the plates were cleared away, he was smiling and laughing. Outside the restaurant, when she gave him her best wistful smile and said maybe she'd see him around, he was the one who suggested they could talk a little longer.

"Back at your place?"

He nodded. "Let's go."

A city of thousands and thousands of people, and he'd shown her right where he was staying. Maybe he thought she already knew. A little verbal push here and there, and he was fishing to figure out if she was dating anyone (like she'd fall for that.)

So she'd had to kiss him first – so what? He didn't make the slightest sign of hesitation (and she'd been really, really watching to see if he did.) He was the one who kept making each touch last longer and longer.

She was convinced – she knew – if she could get him into bed, they'd be having a whole different conversation in the morning. Tomorrow would be another day – and, maybe, another chance.

She could get him to remember.

But then Michael's friendly neighbor sent a man with a gun to convince Michael to move out. And she was pissed, because the man was wrecking her plan – a plan on which she'd worked very hard and had a lot invested – so she took his gun and smacked him.

Her nice plan went to pieces, just like that.

It was the momentary jolt of adrenaline that put Michael back on his guard. She loved a little spark of danger. He didn't. It was what made her look for trouble, and him only deal with it when necessary.

She ended up going back to her hotel room alone. Furious, and alone. Now she had to make a new plan. She should've shot that man who her ruined her plan, shot him with his own gun.

This second plan was going to take patience.

Patience had never been her thing.

[]

She went back to New York. Getting back on that plane was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. He could easily, easily be gone before she had a chance to get back. In this short space of time, she felt like she hadn't been able to convince him of anything.

Convincing herself – that was another story. She only had a few rules for herself (very few), but lying to herself was one of them. No lying to herself. Anyone else – everyone else – was fine. With her lifestyle, she cut corners, played in shadows, made risky ventures as often as possible. No lying to herself.

She still wanted that man. On any conditions, on any terms.

Her mother always said she was perfect at getting what she wanted. While that certainly hadn't turned out to be true, she was a big fan of the high risk, high reward system.

This was an incredibly high personal risk. Worse yet, she'd made this kind of risk on Michael before – and lost.

Sometimes she made great decisions. Sometimes – not so much.

Getting on the plane – risky. Carrying out her new plan – very risky. Betting on this man again – most risky of all.

High risk, high reward.

High risk.

[]

Back in New York, she sold off her entire inventory within twenty-four hours, below cost and to any buyer. She broke deals and revoked promises. She worked her personal possessions the same way she had when she left Ireland: two boxes shipped to a PO box acquired under a false name. She made time to say a brief goodbye to her few friends, told them pretty lies about moving to California and calling them when she was settled.

She cut her losses on everything. She didn't even let her mother know where she was going

Three days and two checked bags later, she was back on a plane to Miami. She had what she carried, and the two boxes she'd mailed, and lots of pissed-off people behind her.

If this didn't work out. . .

Too late to change her mind.

[]

When she was back in Miami, her first thought was to see if Michael was still there. But he either was or he wasn't, and either way, she was going to be in town for awhile.

She "found" a nice car. A sports car. She could drive one of those all year, here.

There was a decent furnished apartment not far from where Michael had been living (that awful loft above a nightclub.) She wasn't thrilled with her new place, but part of making a clean move was not staying in one place for too long. If she ended up staying in Miami, she'd have to relocate every few weeks for the next several months. If she didn't follow that plan, some of those pissed-off people she'd left in New York might find her. Or some of those pissed-off people from Europe. Or back home. Or some governmental agency from any number of countries.

She retrieved her shipped boxes, set up her snowglobe collection. Put some food in the fridge and some wine in the cabinet. She went to an upscale second-hand store and picked up a few outfits.

Only when all the basics were done did she allow herself to see about Michael.

[]

It was impossible to tell from outside if the loft was still occupied. She gave the door a brief knock, but no one answered, so she pulled out a hairpin and let herself in.

It was almost as difficult to tell from the inside if the loft was still occupied. Pretty much no furniture. Left over, discarded, ugly props from the club downstairs. A mattress with some sheets and a pillow. No obvious personal possessions. When Michael walked away, he just left, unless it was necessary to clean up loose ends. She knew that first hand.

The best (maybe only) way to tell if he was still around was to look in the fridge. Walking over to the kitchen counter, she set her hand on the handle of the fridge, took a deep breath, and yanked it open.

There was yogurt. Blueberry. Enough for four or five days.

She was dangerously close to crying again.

Focus.

No point in getting all worked up. She went exploring instead. All over the loft, from under the kitchen sink, to the little deck upstairs, to the horrendously tiny bathroom. She found other signs of his presence: weapons in unusual places, a set of lockpics, several rolls of duct tape. By the time she was finished, she was almost ready to dance around the place.

For someone who had disappeared for several years, he was remarkably unchanged.

She could work with that.

[]

Her second plan fell apart because of Sam Axe.

She was flopped out on the bed, all set for round two, when Michael came home. Someone who didn't know him as well as she did probably would have missed those first few moments when he saw her there. His perfect mask was in place almost immediately.

Too late.

He hadn't expected her to come back. Although he blinked it away quickly, she saw that he was pleased.

I still know you, she silently told him, meeting his eyes.

Who knows what would have happened if Sam Axe hadn't appeared right behind him?

Her second plan crashed the moment Sam Axe set foot in the loft. He'd helped screw her on a deal sometime back, and now he'd ruined her second plan.

If she'd had a gun, she would've shot him.

[]

Setting up a new life wasn't easy. She knew how to do it, but it still wasn't easy. As a result, her third and forth plans went wrong because of her own actions – because as much as she wanted him, a girl had to take care of herself first.

Michael wasn't making things easy, either.

The first time around, he'd pursued her. Later she'd found out that was part of his job (he still had no idea how close she'd come to shooting him over that.) Anyway, she hadn't run very far or very fast. Now things were reversed, and sometimes she felt like he was putting up a fight as if his life depended on it.

So he cost her a lot of energy without much progress. At least it was fun.

If he was out in the cold, alone, so was she. All new contacts. Lots of time spent in alleys and bars, meeting new and not-so-exciting people. Back to being at the bottom of the food chain, making small deals for pocket change. Learning new escape routes, new places to hide. Almost getting caught while pulling off minor gigs. Making a few friends and pissing-off new people every day.

She hadn't had this much fun in years.

On the flip side, Michael was sort of like her favorite hobby. She didn't mean for it to be like that (obviously), but there were only so many hours in a day.

Inch by inch, she gained on him. He was able to hide better than she was, but she was faster.

"I don't want to hear about your other jobs," he said once. But that was right before he started to yell at her to get out before she got caught, so she tried to blow it off. And, she was able to get a key to his place out of it.

She watched for opportunities – but she also made her own.

One day he came home and found her sunbathing on his balcony. She brought her own towel (because his were threadbare and scratchy) and tanning lotion. She pinned her hair up, ditched her clothes, and stretched out on her belly, head resting on her crossed arms. She gambled on Sam not being with him, and she won.

She watched him from beneath her arms, gauging his reaction. She smiled to herself when she saw him pause.

"Shameless, Fi," he told her, walking out to the balcony.

"Everyone else has a nice tan. I'm trying to blend in."

"And you can't to this at your place because. . ."

"The neighbors bug me."

"Someone could bother you up here, too. There's a business downstairs, for god's sake."

Without moving too much, she held up a small pistol. "But it's easier to shoot them, from up here."

He just sighed and walked back inside.

Before he got too far, she held up the tanning lotion. "Do my shoulders, before you go?" she asked innocently.

"Absolutely shameless," he replied, not taking the bait. But he hesitated.

She laughed at him.

[]

Her fifth plan disappeared like water in the sun because of a stupid file.

At first, that damn Bly had been a help. He was a common enemy to work against, a real threat, not like the FBI tail. He provided a great opportunity for her to back Michael into a corner and get some answers she'd wanted for a very long time.

"Much as I like foreign politics, I think this would be a great opportunity to discuss, exactly, why you left me."

Unfortunately, the answers he provided ended up making her so sad, she wished she hadn't asked.

That was not to her benefit. But Bly set her up to get caught by the cops, and that was to her benefit. The man threatened her, and that pushed Michael to do some thinking, maybe made him realize things between them weren't quite as settled as he might like.

She was able to accomplish one of her main objectives, which was to get him into bed. It was way more effort than it should have been (he was still a man, after all.) And it was completely worth it – but once all she'd had to do was smile suggestively at him. Now she halfway though it would be easier to pick up some guy at a bar.

"Still profoundly unhappy?" she asked him later.

Things had been going well. And then Bly had shown up with that damn file.

She should've shot the agent, right then and there.

[]

She tried multiple tactics with her next several plans.

Plan six: get his attention by turning her eyes on another man. Moderately effective.

Plan seven: directly drive him crazy by hounding him with questions. Not as effective.

Plan eight wasn't even a real plan – it was an accident. She went over to his loft, and even though it was late, he wasn't there. Her business was doing much, much better; she was working a lot more. She'd been awake for almost a day and a night, and she was so tired her hands were shaking. She kicked off her shoes and laid down on the bed just for a minute, just for a little while. When she woke up, he was beside her, arm over her waist, a blanket over them both.

I finally won, she thought, only half awake.

But that turned out to be wrong.

When it came down to a choice between her and that damn agency – she didn't win.

High risk, high reward.

She got the second prize: he was honest, and he said goodbye.

At least Madeline and Nate were safe. And Sam. She was actually glad she hadn't shot him. He'd been on her side more times than he'd been against her. After it was over and Michael was gone, Sam called her. She let it go to voicemail, but sent him a text so he'd know she wasn't dead – after all, she wasn't Michael.

Want to get a beer? Sam texted back.

She didn't answer that.

The snowglobes at home held no answers, no matter how long she stared at them. Several times she picked up the one that said Welcome to Miami, intending to throw it against a wall; somehow it always ended up safely back on the shelf.

It was okay to cry. She was alone, and there wasn't anyone to see her.

When you gambled, sometimes you lost.

[]

It was easier this time. She kept telling herself that. It wasn't like she didn't know what the hell happened. She'd managed to convince him of something. And if she didn't know where he was or if he was still alive – well, that wasn't new.

Eventually she sat down in the middle of her livingroom and pulled out a world map.

Where to next?

A bottle of wine and several hours later, she decided she might try Australia. New continent, new life. New name? Why not.

She fell asleep on the map.

Her business was finally going great. She had almost a dozen voicemails by the time she found her phone under her bed. (She never did figure out how it got there.) If she was going to start over (again), she needed to put together some cash. Right now.

She started listening to the messages, wrote down notes as she went. Voicemails: blah, blah, blah, Sam, blah, blah blah, Michael, blah, blah –

?

Nope, that was him. And the message wasn't that old. Really? Again? Well, hell –

Maybe she'd shoot him, this time.

Whether it was that thought or the fact that he was still alive that made her smile: it didn't really matter.

[]

She couldn't even remember what number was for this plan. Maybe no more numbers. Letters? She could do that, just needed to pick a language.

This was a bad decision. Again. If she was smart, she would ignore him and proceed with her original idea. New place, new name, new life.

Apparently she just wasn't that smart. She was willing to try new tactics, new objectives, all to accomplish the same goal.

She still wanted that man.

[]

Michael still came remarkably close to being shot by her. (He would never know how close.)

She'd practically bent over backwards to get him to come close, in her numerical plans. Time to go the opposite way.

Plan A: be straight, the way she'd talk to herself. Did her last tactics work? No? Then get to it.

It was still hard to be totally honest. Not fun. Not fun at all.

"You – left –"

"And I came back," he defended, not looking at her.

"You left," she said again, angry because he wouldn't shut up and, goddammit, this was hard enough. "You had a choice to make, and you made it." Now she was the one who couldn't look at him. "I always thought, when it came down to it. . . But you didn't."

"What are you saying, Fi?"

This just kept getting worse and worse. Sometimes she had the most stupid plans. Too late now.

So she told him. And how did he answer?

I told you so. Different words, same message.

You certainly did.

That seemed like it may actually have hit him. She looked back at him before she left. He had a great poker face, always had, but she caught the little signs that gave him away: the clinched fist, the way he locked his jaw so he wouldn't accidentally say anything.

Close – but not close enough.

[]

Plan B consisted of groundwork she'd built over a long time. Not that she didn't like Madeline (she really did), but this was war, so no pulling punches. Anyway, she was pretty sure Madeline was her kind of girl.

It was true: she was going to let Michael's mother loose on him.

She had five brothers. She knew the only thing worse than having a mother who hated your girlfriend was having a mother who really liked your girlfriend.

Enough with the sadness – time for more fun.

Michael went to get something from the fridge, and she saw Madeline hiss at him, "Why do you always do this?"

It was nice to see him cringe. It made her feel much better. And hopeful. In war, it was important to have allies.

After his mother softened him up, playing poker with him was – interesting. Not exactly fun; maybe a different kind of fun. Or maybe not. Every card was a message: raise, call, fold. They were sitting right next to each other. But no cheating: that made for a bad sportsman. She knew he had to have better cards than he played against her, if only because every time he ran up against another player, he always raised or called. Sometimes he lost, sometimes he won. But every time it came down to just the two of them, he always folded. Even if she had the worst cards possible, and by the cards on the table, he had to have better – he still always folded.

On her own, she lost and won, about the same as him. When they stopped playing against each other: that was a different story.

"Okay, you two are cheating," one of the ladies finally accused. "There's no way you guys could pull off a win every single time if you weren't playing as a team."

She slid her eyes towards him, saw him already looking at her, and she almost laughed. This – this was fun.

He kicked her under the table.

"Excuse me – little girls' room," she stumbled, quickly getting up and moving away. She had to go, or she would've completely started laughing. If she did that, she was pretty sure he would've followed suit.

Looking into the bathroom mirror, she smiled at herself. She still had a chance.

Just to make sure he knew that, too, she said it out loud when they got outside:

"You owe me."

And he folded.

[]

She might have won the battle with Plan B, but she had not won the war.

Plan C: put some real pressure on the relationship.

She went out and got a boyfriend. He was a nice enough man, this Campbell: he was sweet and kind, and completely outmatched by her. She had no guilt about using him, since he was compensated for his time. She made sure Michael knew that, too.

He flinched. He really did. But he didn't break.

Campbell did. And she was pissed that he dumped her while she was still playing him against Michael.

Yet another man she should've shot.

[]

Plan D fell apart because she got sick.

It started out as a little cold: sneezing, sore throat, cough. More annoying than anything else, so she kept going. Business was good, and Michael kept including her in more and more of his jobs. She didn't want to give either up. The sneezing went away, but the sore throat got to the point where it hurt to swallow anything, and the cough started to wake her up during the night.

"Damn, Fi – maybe you should see a doctor before you contaminate us all?" Sam asked her finally.

She glared at him, but picked up some antibiotics from an associate. However, she forgot to take them like she was supposed to: swallowing pills wasn't her thing. Eventually she ended up with a nice fever and flat in bed.

She woke up with a hard shake to the shoulder.

"You alive, sister?" Sam asked.

"Go away," she mumbled hoarsely.

Then Michael knelt down at her eyelevel. He held up her bottle of antibiotics and shook it noisily. "You actually have to swallow these to get better. Just having them on the kitchen cabinet won't work. They don't have magical powers, Fi."

She'd barely managed to smile at him. "Sorry."

Sam left. Michael stayed.

"I'll take the pills," she told him when the fever finally broke. "Promise. You don't need to stay."

"If I don't put the pills in your hand, you won't take them," Michael returned. "I have a job that needs a third person, so you need to get better so the job can get done." Which explained the meds, but not the soups and teas – or sitting on the couch, watching tv with her.

In the end she got better, but she never could exactly recall how long Michael had stayed.

[]

Plan E was spontaneously born from an unexpected conversation.

"I like this Johnny. He has flair," she'd told Michael as he sat on the end of the bed, undoing his tie and pulling off his shoes. She smiled wistfully at him. "Do you remember what you called yourself?"

"Michael McBride," he answered, sounding just the way he had when they'd first met.

She smiled a little. "Where'd he go?"

His answer made her sad. Not crying sad, just tired sad. She walked out, having nothing left to say.

Plan E led directly into Plan F, which turned out to be an improvised plan. She went in to a suspected bombmaker's house to take a look around, which was a big mistake because the entire house started to burn. She used her phone to clear out the first window possible, killing the phone. She went back to the loft, but it took Michael forever to get home. He was soaked through from the rain, and looked at her like he'd just found something he'd really been trying to find. And it took her a minute to realize what he'd really been trying to find – was her.

"Michael, you didn't think –"

He didn't have much to say, but what he did was done with gentle hands. This was on him, this decision to fall into bed. It was different this time, slow and emotional. She left early the next morning, because it didn't seem fair to use his genuine concern as a form of leverage.

So he got a free pass on that plan.

[]

Plan F floated away like a child's balloon the instant Michael's ex-fiancé appeared at his door.

Was this what he'd felt like when she threw Campbell at him? If so, then she was sorry she'd done that.

Maybe she was sorry anyway.

There must be something special about this woman. He'd wanted to marry her, possibly had a child with her. He'd never said one word about it, not even a hint.

Jealousy was one of her emotions closely linked to Michael. When it came to him, she wasn't big on sharing. She already had to share him with the agency.

She could drive the woman away, force her to leave. It wouldn't be terribly hard. But the woman had a child, so she wouldn't even try. If Michael chose Samantha over her – well, she wouldn't need to make any more plans.

This time she'd be the one to disappear silently, not out of revenge, but because she couldn't look at him and admit failure. She wasn't good at that. Didn't want to get better at it, either.

Later he said, "You don't marry one person when you love someone else."

How many other huge events was he careful not to tell her about? Maybe he thought she didn't want to know. Maybe he was right.

[]

Plan G never really got started because of a small work-related accident. She went to drop off a shipment and accidentally ended up without an escape route, so she accidentally ended up getting her ass kicked.

She didn't lose the shipment, and that was the most important thing. Bruises and a black eye were temporary. Guns were forever.

Besides – if you played with sharp things, sometimes you got cut.

It could have stayed that simple, except that Sam left her a voicemail asking if she was free to lend a hand with a job. She texted him back an answer: she was out of town, wouldn't be back for a few days. Then Michael left a message asking which day exactly she'd be back, because Sam's easy job now needed a third person.

The black eye and bruises on her neck were still very obvious. She could hide them, between cosmetics and a scarf. Who knew what would be required for the job? So she added on a few days, stalling.

Maybe the two friends compared notes. Maybe Michael was just stopping by to make sure she'd locked all the windows (weird, but he did that sometimes.) Or maybe he was coming by to water the plants. Whatever the reason, the key was in the lock and the door was open before she'd though of a decent way to explain the marks.

He had never liked her work. He'd finally figured out to stop bugging her about it. But, unless she was really, really in a jam, she never asked him for help with it. But she also hated explaining things, especially when they went wrong.

She turned on the shower and ditched her clothes. In her haste, she didn't let the water warm up, and she almost yelped because it was so cold.

"Hey, I thought you weren't coming back until Thursday."

"Came to pick up a few things. What are you doing here?" she challenged.

"Just checking." He didn't say specifically what he was checking.

"Okay, thanks. Call you when I get back."

He didn't leave. "Are you dodging me?"

Time to gamble. "You're welcome to join me, if you want," she laughed. "There's room for two."

"Call me when you get back."

She waited until the front door closed and counted to twenty, then shut off the water and reached blindly for the towel. It wasn't where it was supposed to be, so she fumbled around, finally got pissed and flung back the shower curtain.

The towel was draped over the edge of her bed, and Michael sat beside it.

"Goddammit, give me that."

"Fiona, what the hell happened?"

She snatched up the towel, wrapped it around herself, went back into the bathroom to comb her hair. And she was pissed because he'd played her. "Deal went bad. Don't worry – I made a few calls. Those guys won't be getting anything other than cap guns in this area anymore. And, I still have the shipment."

He leaned against the doorway, met her eyes in the mirror. "Oh, since you have the shipment, then everything's fine." He paused. "Who were these guys? Where'd you meet them?"

"Stop it. Didn't ask for your help, Michael. It's handled."

"Just curious," he replied, smiling.

She knew that smile. That was his fake smile, the one he used on marks. She used her hairbrush to point at his reflection. "Sometimes you're a really bad liar."

[]

Plan H-J all involved killing Carla. At first the plans involved Victor, too – but then she found those pictures of his child (so carefully hidden.) So Victor was allowed to fall out of the plans.

Carla – Carla was already dead, she just didn't know it yet.

It wasn't complicated: Carla was some twisted embodiment of the agency and international conspiracy and everything else Michael kept choosing over her. Carla had to go.

And the blond woman did, with one shot. Sam helped (a little.)

Michael left her anyway. Again.

[]

It was true: he came back. Called her to say he wasn't dead, and came back. He was learning – just at the rate of a toddler.

But it was progress.

Done was done. He was a free man now, a regular Miami resident. Almost regular. Like her.

"I think he'll try t get back in," Sam told her honestly, when she insisted.

Apparently he knew Michael better than she did.

Dammit.

[]

She was down to what she called the Omega Plan. She called it that because it was all she had left to try.

Any terms, and conditions. Yeah, well – maybe not.

He was trying. She could tell (after so long of watching him go in the other direction.) Sure, his idea of dating needed some work (a lot of work), but at least he wasn't acting like she was just an old girlfriend anymore.

"That shirt's a good color for you," he told her once. "Matches your eyes."

She turned around to look at him, sure she hadn't heard correctly. "What?"

He laughed at her. For a minute, he looked just like the him she'd first met.

The changes didn't last long. Sam was right: Michael started looking for ways to get his old job back.

"Really, Fi – this is important."

"Come on," she'd scoffed.

She was slipping, loosing ground against an enemy she couldn't even see. The fact that he was finally coming around – well, maybe that was just making things harder than they needed to be.

Maybe not under any conditions. . .or terms. . .

[]

When Strickler turned up, she was pretty sure the game was over. And she wasn't the winner. It probably wouldn't even do any good to shoot the weasel. There would just be someone to take his place; even if there wasn't, Michael would keep working on his own.

Strickler was the equivalent of her Armand. It wasn't hard to see that. Even if Michael had somehow managed to escape this kind of devil before, she hadn't. Sure, the devil would give you want you wanted, but he'd be with you forever. A phone call, a drop-in visit, a favor here and there. Twenty things you wish you hadn't done later – getting what you'd wanted didn't seem that important anymore.

She still wanted him, much as she ever had.

But not on these terms or conditions.

Whoever or whatever she'd been trying to beat these last few years: they/it won.

Time to start over. "I just can't stay here – in Miami – and watch." Her mother had tried to warn her against Armand, but it had come down to him or being dead, so her mother had finally relented. Go, my love. Try to remember who you really are. The real you.

Michael was still locked down in Miami. She wouldn't have to worry about him trying to follow her. That was almost funny – finally, a man from her past who wouldn't hunt her down.

Sam understood. "It was fun," he offered, smiling a little.

"Yeah." She hesitated, added, "I'm glad I didn't shoot you."

"You and me both, sister."

Michal wasn't nearly so reasonable. Now, now he wanted to fight. Not for her, but to have it both ways. "I'm not doing this for me – "

Same thing he'd said ever since he'd come back to Miami. She'd borrowed the phrase from him once or twice, but he could have it back now. And keep it.

Australia. Two boxes, two checked bags. Lots of cities to choose from.

Then she changed her mind. She wanted to go home. Take everything, every gun and snowglobe she had. All her dresses, all her shoes. Maybe not all her shoes.

She was going to go home to her mother and cry like a little girl.

Then she was going to start over.

What was the old saying? Something about the third time being the charm.

[]

It had been just a matter of time before some pissed-off person from her past managed to find her. It was just bad timing that she'd been found while she was in the middle of a major emotional trauma.

Apparently it was time to pay up for every piece of luck she'd ever had. All at once, right now.

And just to make sure she understood that, her brother showed up to say it aloud.

"Dammit, Fiona – what the hell have you been doing over here?" Sean demanded. No hello, no I'm-happy-to-see-you. Just her brother, telling her how to live her life, like he'd done since they were kids. He wasn't even that much older than she was.

She had absolutely no intention to tell Sean anything about Michael. Years and years ago she'd stopped telling a straight story to anyone, including her family. They thought she'd moved to Miami because she wanted to try living someplace sunny. She hadn't made mention (ever) of Michael.

So, of course, Michael just had to show up.

Then she was afraid – really, really afraid. Everyone back home knew him as Michael McBride. Being tossed out of her family would be the least of her concerns if it came out she'd associated with an American spy. Not just associated: cooperated. Invited him to all kinds of things that she never should have. Her entire family would be exterminated if it came out who he was and what she'd done.

She was more afraid of that than ten of Thomas O'Neil.

"No one can ever know," she snapped at Michael while avoiding gunfire from O'Neil's men. Not that he didn't already know that, or that they hadn't had a major fight over it.

When he'd first told her who he really was and what he really did, her first reaction had been to shoot him because she was absolutely furious at being played. Her second reaction had been to shoot him because she was terrified of what he knew, thanks to her.

Her third reaction? To shoot herself, so that even if it was discovered what she'd done, her family might be spared.

"Don't worry, they won't."

From him? No. From someone else?

Well, everything else in her life seemed to be coming apart at the seams.

[]

Where did all the fun in her life go? She was sure her life used to be more fun.

The last thing she'd said to Michael was to stop talking. She would regret that for as long as she lived.

Which probably wasn't going to be very long, since she was bound to a chair with a madman standing before her.

Thomas O'Neil – yet another man she should've shot when she had the chance. She either needed to start shooting more people, or associating with less dangerous ones.

In her next life, anyway. If she wasn't sent straight to hell on an eternity ticket.

O'Neil was standing in front of her calling himself a patriot. She'd been a patriot, too (once.) Michael thought his government job made him a patriot.

So when she yelled at O'Neil, who was she really talking about?

"Even your own country wants you dead –"

Didn't really matter, in the end. Michael had a gun, and Sam, and O'Neil and all his men. She had her hands tied behind her back. Literally. It was hard to be reflective while she was being used as a shield, dragged towards a boat. She was sorry about a lot of things. She'd do a lot of things differently, if she had a chance.

But not the things with Michael (not most of them, anyway.) She'd bet everything on him so many times, she couldn't possibly remember all of them. So what was one more?

That was what she was thinking when she jumped off the bridge, hands still tied behind her back.

High risk, high reward.

II. What He Said

You know what kind of people float face down in the water, hands tied behind their backs? Dead people.

Fiona is doing a great impression of one right now.

He can't remember that last time he's been so afraid. Or maybe he can – but it's been awhile.

That night when he'd dumped his cover and told her the truth. He'd been careful to remove all the firearms, made sure the windows were too small to use as exits (even for her), and chosen a place where the walls would muffle almost all the sounds (because there would be yelling.) Good plan, but he had never been able to completely figure her out. Just because he'd removed all the guns didn't mean she couldn't find any weapons. And she had, by smashing the dresser mirror and trying to stab him with the largest shard. That wasn't even the scary part. When she finally tried to all-out get past him by whatever means necessary (she bit him three or four times), and by instinct he'd fought back a little too hard and sent her into a wall – he'd been scared to see her drop like a stone to the floor. (But he couldn't move away from the door to assess the damage because, if she was faking and managed to get out, they'd both be dead by morning.) No, the most frightening part of the entire awful ordeal had been when she'd sat up, back against the wall, and tried to make a deal.

"There's a way out for both of us," she'd said quietly, looking up at him with shadowed eyes. "I know I'm dead – you've made sure of that. I can't get out of this box you've trapped me in. So just – just go out, block the door from there. I'll bleed out in a few minutes. You'll have the intelligence, and my family will be safe. You could be long gone before anyone finds my body." When he hadn't answered, she'd added, "I know you like me a little. Not as much as you pretended, I'm sure, but a little. Hopefully enough not to condemn my mother and all my brothers to die because of my stupidity."

He'd just looked at her, not knowing what to say, how to explain –

"Please," she'd said. "No one will ever know."

She was a master at manipulating people, so he hadn't gone any closer to her. But he had dropped to her eye level so he could squarely meet her eyes. "I didn't tell you because I plan to hurt your family, or you. I told you because it's time to be honest."

Pulling her out of the water makes him finally remember how much loosing her means.

Almost everything.

Enough is enough.

[]

His mom lets both Fi and Sean stay at the house until Sean can get on a plane and Fi can go home with him.

"I have my own place, Michael," she tells him, still a little groggy from the painkillers.

"Which is packed into boxes, remember?"

"I was shot, not amputated."

In the few minutes when she's distracted by something else, he sounds Sean out to learn what O'Neil has really said about him back in Ireland. If things are bad enough, it might be necessary to do some damage control. It's easy to anger Fi (very easy), but it takes a lot to make her worry, even more to inspire any kind of fear. If O'Neil really has outed him as an American spy, the situation will need to be handled. But Sean thinks O'Neil's reputation back home is dodgy since he's been unable to deliver Fi and been caught by the police. That man Fiona had gone with a few years back, that McBride fellow? He was an American, maybe.

After Sean is back on a plane, he tells Fi she doesn't need to worry about things. She answers, "Thanks. I'll be able to smash down any rumors when I get home."

Home? "I hope you mean your condo."

She doesn't say anything, and he waits until they're back at the loft to talk about it.

Fi claims she knows how his mind works, how he thinks. He's good at guessing her thoughts, too. Sometimes. For example, when she yells and threatens to shoot people, she can be reasoned with (most of the time.) But when she's quiet and calm – that's when she's most dangerous (always.)

"You heard Sean, Fi – it's not safe for you to go back."

"And I never do anything dangerous."

He pushes her a little, says, "You don't usually do anything stupid."

She laughs. "You might be surprised."

When he's working a cover, he can say and do whatever the situation requires. Even when he has to spontaneously create details and make quick adjustments – it's still easier than trying to convince Fi to change her mind. He's sure that half of the time, he has two minutes or less to make his arguments. "You're going to cut your losses on everything here?" He offers her a yogurt and spoon.

She takes them, sets them down on the spool/table. "Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

He reaches out to turn her arm enough to inspect the bandage. "How much does this still hurt?"

"What do you think?"

"Been taking the painkillers?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, dammit. Stop trying to change the subject."

"Good," he says, "that's good." Because then he catches her by the other arm, pulls her as close as possible and kisses her roughly (neither of which is his style, but she pays more attention when the message is louder.)

"That's your reason?" she asks finally.

He just looks at her.

She smiles. "Convince me."

[]

It still isn't any kind of easy with her, it's just new kinds of hard. Not that he has any choice about it, at this point.

When he was a little boy (first grade?) he'd overheard two teachers talking. He'd gone home to his mom and asked, "What's a vixen?"

She's looked at him askance, blown a stream of smoke at him. "Could mean lots of things. Sometimes that's what you call a pretty girl who's smart, but has a bad temper."

Fiona is the only vixen he's ever met, which is probably for the best, since he's not sure he could deal with any more than that.

They bicker constantly about nearly everything. They both push each other around to see who'll back down first. Little issues can mean days of war.

And the minute she's out of sight, he wonders where she is. She hasn't changed, still goes looking for trouble, finds it without any work because trouble has always loved her. He doesn't even bother to ask her to stop, only asks her to be careful. Not with words, of course, because that would mean a fight. They fight about enough already.

He wouldn't go back to a life without her for any reason. Strickler had made him understand that: he doesn't want to be without her. He knows it'll take a little more creativity to get back in to the agency with her as a girlfriend, but he'll make it work.

They fight about the agency a lot. More than a lot. She won't back down and neither will he. Still, all the fighting is worth the opposite, the little things: the way she explains how his mom works, makes him go out to do "fun things" like dinner and dancing, smiles at him over the top of her sunglasses.

"Still profoundly unhappy?" she teases him occasionally, when she already knows he's not.

One of the best things: getting to share a bed with her on a regular basis. With the skirts, swimsuits, and low-cut shirts, she makes it impossible not to look – and when she catches him looking, she always laughs, like she can tell exactly what he's thinking.

Back when the agency had first sent him after her, seduction wasn't part of his cover. The attraction had been instant, mutual – and a very bad idea. The operation had started to fray almost immediately. When they'd crossed paths again in Miami, she'd made it clear she was willing to pick up right where they'd left off (sort out all the details later.) And two-thirds of him had thought that was a great idea; it was the remaining last third that said no, because the last time they split up hadn't gone so well. No need to make the same mistake twice. But she didn't seem to think it was a bad idea at all. It had been a few years, but she still remembered how to get his attention: innuendo, provocative actions, risky behaviors. She was good, made his life agony on more than one occasion, pushed him to the point where he had considered finding a stranger for a one-night stand. That would have only been a short term solution, and if she'd found out, Fiona would have shot him. Possibly while he was sleeping.

Life is much easier now, at least in that area. She's already swiped his shirts to use as her sleepwear.

"Is that my Armani shirt?"

She looks downwards at the button-up shirt, which is so big on her, it can almost be a dress. "Yep. Want me to give it back?"

He can't help smiling, doesn't even try. "Yeah, I do."

"Well, it's very comfortable, so if you want it back, you'll have to get it yourself."

[]

Sam randomly tells him one day, "Fi's a good fit for you, brother. Oh, don't get me wrong – she's one crazy chick. But you're not so sane yourself, so under the circumstances. . ."

"For years you said she was a complete psycho. What changed your mind?"

Sam says, "I don't know. The whole word's filled with psychos. She's not so bad, I guess. Seems to make you happy enough. But we need to work out some sign for me to go away when you two are – you know – because I really don't want to walk in on anything."

"How about a locked door?"

"But you lock the door when you're not home. How am I supposed to know the difference?"

[]

She tries to tell him Gilroy is bad news. Every day, sometimes more than once. He tries to make her understand he knows that. He knew that from his first meeting with the Gilroy, when the sociopath had used some back-up sniper to explode the bottle of champagne sitting next to Fi. And if the madman makes another move against her, then he's already decided Gilroy will disappear quickly and quietly.

Unless that happens, he has to figure out Gilroy's plans. Sam understands. Fiona doesn't, and when he tells her she can't go with him to capture Simon – she doesn't understand that, either.

"We talked about this. We're in this together."

He recognizes the expression on her face: she thinks he's being unnecessarily reckless. But he's the only one in a position to fix this mess, so he has to.

But later, when his new friend, Vaughn, has him locked in a cell with intelligence reports, he thinks that maybe he could've done things differently. Maybe he could have let her and Sam come along, wouldn't be locked in a cell right now if he had. Maybe he wouldn't have to keep remembering the look on her face.

Or, maybe he'll get used to it. She gives him the same look when he tells her he'll be helping Vaughn with the investigation.

"You know what you're doing." When she says that, it's not with approval. It's her way of saying, Don't tell me when you get burned by the fire.

She's at the loft when Sam tells him this Jesse Porter has been blacklisted because of him. She's quick to turn away, hiding her reaction, which is always a bad sign. When she's quiet, she's dangerous. She tries to leave before Sam does, but he catches his friend's eye, and Sam is smart enough to leave before the yelling begins.

It's not hard to see that she's angry: she's washing dishes, clanking them noisily together; when he comes to stand beside her in the kitchen, she dries her hands and walks away.

"What's going on, Fi?"

She stops and looks at him. She doesn't say much. "All this time you've been suffering from this burn notice – now you've gone and done it to someone else. This Vaughn is evil, Michael. Look what he's already made you do."

"I can fix this – and I will."

Whether or not she believes him, she still leaves. Right down the stairs, one at a time.

[]

It really doesn't make her happy when he suggests Jesse stay in her neighbor's vacant apartment. When he tries to convince her by repeating the argument she'd made earlier in the day – that turns out to be a bad decision, makes her even angrier.

"Fine. There are worse things than having a cute neighbor."

After Jesse retires for the evening, he has second thought about leaving her alone. It isn't anything specific, just a vague uneasiness. She doesn't need him there, would toss him out if she even suspected what he was thinking.

"Want to come back to the loft with me?"

She doesn't consider the idea for more than a minute. "It's been a long day, probably will be an even longer one tomorrow. I have a meeting in the morning." She looks at her watch. "In a few hours, actually."

"Want some back-up?"

"If you want to stay here, you know you don't need an invitation," she says, smiling.

[]

She likes Jesse, and she doesn't usually like anyone in the beginning. Or ever, in the case of most people. She hasn't threatened to shoot the guy one time.

He's fairly certain she isn't doing it to annoy/irritate him, but it does. They do need to maintain a degree of space with Jesse, for safety's sake.

"I'm thinking about taking Jesse as back-up on a delivery tomorrow."

He thinks quickly. "Can you reschedule? If you can move it back a day, then I'm free."

"You still don't think he can handle himself?"

"I don't think he knows exactly what you do for a living."

That turns out to be true. When he and Sam meet Fi and Jesse for a late lunch the next day, Jesse waits for Fi to step away before he asks, "Did you know your girlfriend's an armsdealer?"

"More like a gunrunner," he corrects. "She really doesn't move the volume to be called an armsdealer."

"It's better to diversify," Fi adds, sitting down with her usual tomato juice and celery. "Gun deals, a little bounty hunting, a few resource reallocations. . ."

Sam laughs at Jesse, makes an effort to stop.

"Wait. Sam here was a soldier, Mike was a spy, and you're a criminal? How the hell does that work?" Jesse asks her.

"Well, Sam helped screw me on a deal – "

"We've had this talk, Fi. It was an illegal transaction," Sam says.

" – And I was one of Michael's assets," she finishes.

"You were feeding him information on your buddies?" Jesse asks suspiciously.

"Not exactly," Fi answers. She looks at him and smiles.

"It's complicated," he tells Jesse. "Let's talk about that possible contact of yours. Cobra."

So now they have something else to fight about. She doesn't care how many times he tries to explain that he's doing his best to help Jesse. Soon she has his mother on her side, so he gets to hear about it almost everywhere. Even Sam starts to make vague references about doing better by Jesse. All because of Fi.

One night it finally comes to a real fight: she smacks him (not unusual), but then says a few things that show she really doesn't understand his perspective.

" – Someone who only cares about the idea of people –"

That hurts, because it's something he's thought about for years and years, something he's worried about ever since he started running assets. It's an idea he's never, never talked to her about, because once he'd thought of her as someone to be exploited to accomplish a goal.

"You know me better than that."

"I used to think so." She leaves, doesn't want to even discuss it anymore.

That's the first thing he thinks about when Sam tells him she's been kidnapped with the client. He credits Jesse for being part of the reason Fi's in trouble, because if they hadn't been fighting about Jesse's situation, Sam would've asked him rather than Fi to be the second man on the team. Then Jesse demonstrates an inability to babysit one rich guy with a cell phone.

"Don't kill him right now," Sam advises. "We still need him to help find Fi."

Now Sam's defending Jesse. He made Jesse's life complicated, but Jesse complicated his life, too. They're stuck with each other.

To be fair, Jesse does manage to break the rich guy. With that information, he can get the client, the kidnappers end up with the cops, and Sam brings Fi home.

This morning she'd been crystal perfection from head to heels. Now she's the complete opposite, barefoot and messy. He doesn't care: she's alive and smiling and will probably declare the entire fiasco was fun.

"You should see the other guy."

He doesn't want to see the other guy. He just wants her and some time to make sure she's in one piece. If he holds her a little too tightly, it's only because he's relieved to have another chance to hold her at all.

"I think we scared Jesse away."

"Don't care," he says, and means it.

"I smell like burning rubber," she laughs, pulling away from him.

"Don't care about that, either," he replies, pulling her back.

[]

He'd learned a long time ago: when the truth of a situation came out, the person being kept in the dark often blamed the person who had been their best advocate, not the person who was responsible for the situation in the first place.

He isn't surprised that Jesse goes after Fi, but he is concerned. That Jesse actually points a gun at her – that's something he hadn't expected. What surprises him is Fi sitting across from him and disclosing that she kissed Jesse during a job. As part of a cover, she says at first, which obviously isn't completely true or she wouldn't be looking so guilty. He's seen her do all kinds of things on a job that she never even seems vaguely to regret.

"I was – confused."

"Are you confused now?" It's hard to keep his voice even, his tone civil. This isn't some guy she's using to get his attention. This is real.

For awhile after that, he occasionally catches her watching him. If she sees him watching her, she makes some smart-ass comment as a distraction. But she still watches him from the corner of her eyes, the way she waits for a detonation to happen.

He has to think about it, but eventually decides he isn't angry at her, or even that hurt. He lives a dangerous life, makes difficult choices. If something happens to him, he doesn't want her to be lonely and alone. He wants her to be happy.

Besides, she's clearly already beat herself up over it worse than anything he could've said.

As far as Jesse is concerned – well, he still needs the guy to get the list. But one evening when everything is reasonably quiet, and Sam and Fi are off somewhere else, he does address the gun issue.

"Do you know what Fi was doing when we met?"

"I'm guessing it was something illegal," Jesse says.

He laughs. "She was already an expert marksman. Still is. Always hits her target. Never hesitates to shoot." He stops smiling. "Do you ever hesitate, Jesse?"

"Didn't hesitate to shoot you," Jesse answers, half-joking.

"That's funny. The next time you put a gun to Fiona, you shouldn't hesitate. Because even if you don't hurt her, you'll still be dead." Then he smiles again.

Jesse isn't stupid. Slowly he nods. "I hear you."

[]

When things are calm, they fight. When things aren't calm, they fight. But when things become really stressful – that's when they really fight.

"This may be your fight, Michael, but we're all caught in the crossfire."

Like he doesn't already know that. Like he wouldn't change it, if he could.

She won't leave, even when he tells her she should.

It takes a lot to shake him, at this point in time. Vaughn's about to finish him off, unless he can get close enough to detonate the make-shift bomb that's keeping him company.

Fiona suddenly flying through the window and landing beside him? That's probably the most startled he's been in a long time.

"I'm tired of you making all the decisions in this relationship."

If they weren't so busy trying to stay alive, he'd promise to work on that.

[]

He calls her the first chance he gets.

"I'm calling to say I'm still alive."

"Guess I won't return your birthday present, then," she says. "Still in D.C.?"

This is going to be one of the things they have to work out. He's back with the agency now (or very close to it), and there are some rules. She's never been a fan of rules, so this will be difficult, but he'll make it work.

"Something like that. Will you call Mom for me?"

"Sure. I'll – I'll see you soon."

He knows she wants to ask when, but she doesn't. It makes him think the situation will work out.

When he finally does make it home, it's in the middle of the week and well after midnight. He hadn't called ahead incase things changed, but it doesn't matter: her car is in the lot and there's a light on in the loft.

Inside, she's asleep on the bed, looking like she just meant to sit down for a minute: still in her day clothes, shoes by the bed, purse and keys at her feet. The lamp from across the room almost makes more shadows than it dispels.

She looks thinner, smaller than he remembers. When she's awake, he never thinks of her as being small; when her eyes are closed, it's a different story.

There's going to be a lot of fighting. But if it's between fighting with her or living without her – fighting it is.

Maybe the fighting won't start right away.

"Hey, Fi."

She opens her eyes, quickly closes them against the light. "Hey. When did you get in?"

He turns the lamp so the light won't be in her eyes, sits down beside her on the bed. "A few minutes ago. Long day?"

She smiles. "Yeah. You?" She sits up and hugs him, is practically asleep again before he has a chance to answer.

The fighting is postponed. It's nice to rest beside her.

He closes his eyes, opens them to find the sun climbing into the sky. Fi's awake and smiling like she has a secret.

"What are you smiling at?"

She doesn't answer, leans forward to kiss him.

The fighting is postponed a little longer.

But it does start eventually.

"You were in D.C. all this time?" she asks. "I guess you're back in, then."

He takes the mug she hands him. "I'm close." He hesitates. "Look, Fi – we need to talk about some things." He finally says all the things he's been rehearsing over the past few days. Oddly enough, she doesn't interrupt, doesn't yell or threaten him. She sips her tea and listens quietly, waits for him to finish.

"So, what do you think?"

She tilts her head. "I think you just gave me the same speech you'd give a mark. You really are close to getting your old job back." She sets down her mug, starts looking for her keys.

"Hey, stop. Stop. Can we – let's talk about this."

"Was it easier for you when I was an asset, and you could sell me any story that crossed your mind?"

This is worse than when she yells and threatens. "That's not fair."

"How exactly do you see things ending here?"

If she leaves now, he's fairly certain she won't be coming back. (It's that night all over again, a room with small windows and large mirror shards.) "I see us working it out." He closes the distance between them, slowly takes the keys from her hand.

"I don't think I can fit into this plan of yours, Michael. Not this time."

He doesn't know what to say. If she really thinks he's treating her like a mark, this conversation is over. "I –" He thinks for a moment, can't come up with anything except, "Do you want to try?"

She looks at him, finally sighs. "Remember that part about being profoundly unhappy?"

He regrets he ever said that out loud.

[]

They practice not talking to each other about their lives. He doesn't tell her where he's been, she doesn't tell him what she's been doing. He doesn't like the arrangement, and while he understands the agency rules, he starts to resent them. The it's-for-her-protection line is one he can barely swallow himself. She doesn't want to be protected, doesn't need it, never asked for it, hates it profusely. He's starting to come around to her point of view.

After about six months, things at the agency let up a little. He can finally be in Miami for longer than a handful of hours, gets to see his mom and Sam, even Jesse (who decided the agency that dumped him wasn't worth going back to.)

Sometimes, when he's out in the field, he worries about Fi. Trouble still loves to find her, and there must be times she could use help. She's a big girl, can take care of herself. Sam and Jesse are there, if she needs them. She made it for a lot of years without him. If something happens, he won't even know about it until it's over.

Those thoughts are paralyzing; he ignores them as much as possible, doesn't let them interfere with what he has to do.

This life is what he'd wanted back for years. It's allowing him to hunt down not only the people who ruined his life, but the lives of dozens of others. He tells himself he loves the job as much as he ever did. Most of the time he believes it.

Unless he's home with Fi. Then it's more complicated.

He starts to blend the two parts of his life. He makes the agency adjust, gets both her and Sam authorized for a job. He asks her to fill in on a job for him, and that seems to settle things between them, at least a little. And there are times (when he's sure she doesn't see him) that she closes her eyes and rubs her neck like she's got a permanent pain. He never saw her do it before he went back to the agency, started disappearing for long stretches at a time.

He doesn't understand why it has to be one way or another. If he has a little more time, he can make it work.

"I wanted to talk to you about a few things," he tells Fi one night.

How does she respond? "You've got a great new life. I won't hold you back." She's carefully not looking at him, and he can't see her eyes, get a clue about what she's really thinking.

This is what getting back in has cost her: constantly watching him leave, not saying where he's going or been or been doing. He knows it's hard, but she'll get used to it; she's good at adapting. She just needs some time. Even knowing that, he feels badly about it.

"I like my life. And I want to share it here, with you."

[]

Things get better, after that. It's still no kind of easy, but it doesn't feel like they're one brief conversation away from a permanent split.

"Moving in is a romantic gesture, Michael, but have you thought about what it really means?" Fi asks him.

"It means you have your things here. It's not like you don't spend time here already."

"No," she says brightly, "it means this becomes my house, and you live here with me."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

He quickly discovers it's not the same thing. It's not only her snowglobes that move in, it's her whole life. Dresses, bread baskets, fresh flowers and all.

"Change is a process," she encourages him. "Not too late to back out."

He shakes his head. "No, I'm in. Those eight-hundred-thread-count sheets are nice."

"You've slept on them before."

"But now I get to sleep with them all the time."

She slants him a smile. "Are we still talking about sheets?"

[]

After so much time being on guard, it's hard not to see danger everywhere. The tourist who stares a little too long, the man following him in the crowd, the same cab driver who shows up every time.

"Shred those files, and you life will get easier," Fi tells him.

"You must've felt something like this before," he says, hears the defensiveness in his own voice.

She's not angry. "Probably, yes. Maybe not quite the same, but close." She sounds like she understands.

"How'd you handle it?"

But she doesn't share many details. "If you're not sure about something, get a second opinion."

That doesn't really help.

Once they stop by Mom's house while Nate, Ruth, and Charlie are there.

Fi's never been big on babies. Children as an ideal – she'll fight for them six ways from Sunday. But babysitting Jack had been way outside her comfort zone. She can do a hundred different things on a job, but not babies.

Ruth obviously thinks she's doing something nice for Fi, letting her hold Charlie. Fi reluctantly holds the child like it's an unsecured explosive, capable of detonating at any time.

"Ever think about having a baby?" he asks lightly.

"Just having one, or having one with you?"

He gambles. "With me."

She seems to consider it, eventually shakes her head. "I'm not mother material. Wouldn't know how to do it, don't want to learn. Too much commitment, too much time."

He's not sure he's father material, either. Statistically speaking, the odds are that he'd end up making some of the same devastating mistakes his father had made, no matter how hard he might try to be different. It probably wasn't worth the risk of damaging another human being. "Maybe we should get a pet."

"We can barely manage to keep the plants alive," Fi counters.

He'll think about it.

[]

For awhile, the fighting lets up.

He's decided to give up many of the agency rules. He tells her the general gist of the job, and she seems satisfied with the compromise. It's not like she would ever say anything to anyone else.

Having his place turned upside down is a little more of a hassle than he'd anticipated. She'd warned him, but still. On the flip side, she lives with him: always there to talk, hash out details of a plan, explain why his mom does those manipulative things. And, of course, she's there in bed with him every night. That alone makes all the rearranging worth while.

She keeps telling him he should shred the files that sit in a cardboard box in the corner. At first he thinks she might do it herself when he's not watching, but she doesn't. She doesn't go within three feet of them, as far as he can tell. He can't let them go. He pulls out a handful of papers, starts to randomly go through them, finds some piece of information he hasn't noticed before. It leads him to another report, another bank transaction summary, another file. There are simply too many connections for it to be random.

One night he's pouring over the papers when Fi wakes up, discovers what he's doing. "You said you'd shredded those."

"Actually, you said that, I just didn't correct you."

She couldn't look more hurt if he'd slapped her.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just – you pull at one string and a hundred things come unraveled."

"Michael, I'm – worried about you." She worries so seldom about anything, it's concerning to hear her say that. "Just come to bed and we'll work on it tomorrow, together."

"Alright," he agrees, doesn't move an inch from the table.

"Come to bed," she says.

"Be right there." But he doesn't, not until his eyes blur with fatigue. Then he switches off the lamp, joins her on the bed, where she's already fallen back to sleep.

He submits a summary report of his findings to Max. Max gives it minimal consideration and advises him to let it go.

"I'm beginning to like Max," Fi says when he tells her. That seems promising: if his girlfriend and his agency contact can make peace, get along together, his life could get much easier.

Then one day, when he and Max are out on a minor field operation, Max says, "You know you're on the fast track to getting back in. I don't need to tell you that things will go – could go – a lot easier if you could get Fiona to downscale some of her less-than-legal pastimes."

"Fiona is who she is. The agency can accept that or ignore it, but she's not going to change. Believe me, I know."

"Just a thought," Max offers.

It's not an idea that hasn't already crossed his mind. He knows better than to even ask; bringing it up would guarantee a fight. And it wouldn't happen, anyway.

He doesn't mention Max's suggestion. She's vaguely starting to like the agent. They've run across each other several times since the job down south, and she's beginning to be increasingly more civil to him at each encounter. They might even be able to like each other – if Max can accept she's a die-hard rebel, and she can accept Max isn't the embodiment of an organization she hates.

Of course, when Max is murdered, the possibility becomes moot.

Max is a good guy, someone who deserves more than two shots in the back. When Max asks him to say goodbye to his wife, he can't help thinking maybe it'll be him in this position one day, asking someone to say goodbye to Fi for him.

Thoughts like that are paralyzing. He needs to focus. The first thing he needs to do is get some tactical support, reach out to someone who can get here by the time he's finished erasing himself from the crime scene.

He calls Fi, and she shows up, like she always does.

Sam gets involved immediately, as does Jesse: damage control, evidence destruction. Sam scours the inside of the Charger while Fi mixes thermite to make the gun disappear. Jesse suggests going by the book, contacting the authorities to work things out; Sam and Fi quash the idea before it's three seconds old. But it's also Jesse who uses his resources to hunt down the suspicious cell phone call, and Jesse is the one who goes with Fi to confiscate the video tapes where the phone was purchased.

Fi wants to get rid of the agency detective investigating Max's murder. She doesn't say she wants to shoot Pearce in so many words, but he knows that what's she's thinking. That's her initial answer to most problems. She doesn't like his plan, the one that involves pseudo-cooperation and staying close to the detective.

It's unfortunate that he likes Pearce. Under different circumstances, it might have been nice to work with her. The agent is very intelligent and good at her job. He has to work the situation more carefully thank he would have if a bureaucrat was running the show. The best way he knows how to do that is to be helpful with the investigation.

He enlists Sam to help recover a stolen weapons drone. Fi is furious with the plan. She warns him about taking unnecessary risks every chance she gets. It's almost annoying, coming from her (the poster child for risky ventures.)

His mom and Fi make a good team (even though this team has been known to stand against him.) They do a good job finding his decoy. Fi wants to grab the stand-in immediately, start the interrogation at sunset and conclude by sunrise. Both he and Sam override her, decide to watch the guy for a few days before grabbing him. Patience isn't her strong point, and when things get stressful, what little she has evaporates like water in the sun.

Two stressed people living under the same roof is difficult, especially when they handle the stress in two different ways. He thinks strategy, plans ten steps into the future, reviews any possible scenario and the matching solutions. She thinks sex, aggressively and often. His way has more long-term value, even if hers is more interesting. At least it's better than fighting.

The unofficial investigation he's doing without the agency moves along steadily – until the boat rigged with C4 and a depth-finder comes along. When Fi sees the contraption, her reaction is envy. "I'm rather jealous I didn't think of it myself." The statement means she's going to use the technique in the future. Which may be soon, considering her increasing volatility.

There's something going on with her, and it's really not a good time for one of her fickle spells. The fighting has started up again, and it has a new edge. Maybe it's because they live together now, and there's less space to separate. She's changed her stress-reduction strategy, which probably means she's starting to think of him as part of the problem rather than the solution.

But she's the one who offers another way to locate information on the creator of the boat bomb. There's something odd about how she talks about the guy – Armand? – that gives him a twinge of warning, but when he asks, she shrugs it off.

"He likes me fine. I'm less enthusiastic about him."

Pearce assigns him another agency job, so Sam agrees to help Fi hold up her end of the deal for the information. He focuses on the job. It's not until he's on the way to restaurant to meet her, his mom, and his mom's (possible) boyfriend that he remembers Fi's reaction to meeting Pearce. Or, more precisely, to seeing Pearce. He hadn't told her Pearce is actually an attractive woman, and now there's going to be a (big) deal about that omission.

He knows there's something going on with her the minute he sits down at the table. She's already ordered a bottle of wine, and it's almost half empty. This is more than just about Pearce.

"Something happen with Armand?"

The look she gives him is one he hasn't seen from her in a long time. Her few terse words of explanation don't make things better. If she'd told him the history, he would've handled the situation differently. Even if he'd decided Armand was still the best route to go (which he probably would have), he wouldn't have asked her to do more than provide a contact method, maybe vouch for him. There's a bigger problem with this guy than being an ex-boyfriend.

They cover for each other over dinner. His mom is so happy, neither of them wants to spoil it. He doesn't really like this Benny, but at least he isn't Virgil. He probably won't like any of the men auditioning for the role as his mother's boyfriend.

They came in separate cars, but he asks Fi if she wants to carpool home. Now that the witnesses are gone, she's dropped the act, and she's in such an odd mood, he's hesitant to leave her on her own – someone else out there might catch the brunt of her anger (no small thing.) How he gets her to agree to his offer is a mystery.

She doesn't say anything, just stares out the window. He wants to start working on the lead she'd handed him before dinner, but this problem (whatever it is) needs to be worked out first. Otherwise their fighting may reach a whole new level, and this is not a good time for that.

"You want to tell me what's really going on?"

"There's nothing going on."

This isn't going anywhere. Maybe he should just let it go. Maybe not.

He abruptly turns onto a side street, pulls into an alley behind some warehouses, shuts off the engine.

"Talk."

She gives him an ugly look, opens her door. "I'll get home myself."

She probably has a gun in her purse, but cutting her loose in some dark alley isn't a smart idea. He'd be as concerned for the person who crossed her path as much as he would be for her.

"Are you going to tell me what the hell's going on?" he calls after her. He leans against the side of the car, arms crossed. "Or am I going to have to find Armand and ask him?"

She stops, turns around, comes back. "You need to stay away from him. You've got enough problems already."

"The last time you were like this, it was about O'Neil. Remember how that ended? Let's avoid that this time."

But she's not talking, not going to say one word. Unless it's about something else. "Let's not do this now. You need to get started on that lead. Might help keep Pearce from nailing your ass to the wall."

Except there won't be a later. He'll get focused on something else, the next crisis, and she knows it. He's not the only one who can play people, and he doesn't like it any more than she does. "Don't even start."

He has far more patience than she does. He can out wait her. There are just other things that need to be done. "Fine. Later, then."

She smiles a little – not at all friendly – and says, "You driving or am I?"

[]

Sam isn't thrilled about being called at midnight to go on a road trip. But while the boiling point with Fi seems to have passed, they could each use some space. And he does need to track down the lead – he doesn't know how the information was obtained, how long it might be good. Fi certainly isn't going to tell him.

"Take these. Be safe."

He takes a pair of riffles he hasn't seen before. "Where'd you get these?"

She rolls her eyes, then goes upstairs and shuts the door before he leaves.

Sam finds the whole thing amusing. "This isn't about some fancy restaurant reservation. Should I even ask?"

"I wouldn't."

The info turns out to be good, but breaking the war criminal is tougher than he expected. They need an edge, so he calls her for another hand.

"Really? An old guy's house? That doesn't sound like any kind of fun." But she does it, brings them one box of history.

She's cooled off quite a bit, but not so much that she wants to be around him yet. Or maybe she doesn't want to spend time doing an interrogation. That would require patience, so it's automatically off her list of fun pastimes. He knows the worst of her problem is over when she comes back looking for help herself. Better yet, she asks him, not Sam.

She loves to play crazy terrorist, and if she can't do it herself, getting to watch him do it is the next best thing. Jesse thinks two car bombs are enough to make a point, but he suggests three, just to make her extra happy. And it does: he gets her best smile, the one that's real and sassy and makes her almost look like a young girl again.

There's still something bothering her. She doesn't bring it up, so they don't fight about it – but that means he's left to guess about it. Has she always been like this? He's got his hands full trying to deal with the investigation. It would be nice if she would cut him a little slack. They can deal with their (many) issues later, when the current crisis is over.

"Grand gestures are great," she says once. "Sometimes I think it's the day to day that's the hard part."

And one morning, as he's about to walk out the door for a meeting at the agency, she says, "Maybe we just need some quality time together." She looks at him and adds, "When things have settled down, of course."

Whatever that means.

When Pearce assigns him a job that includes taking Fi along, it seems like a great opportunity to win her over a little. Of course, convincing her to do a gig for the agency is a significant sticking point. She's done it before, but now doesn't seem too keen on the idea. He's not sure if it's the four star restaurant or the chance to make the agency pay for an expensive outfit that finally sells her on the plan. He's fairly certain it isn't him.

It's a nice resort – not really his style, but they're there to do a job. Locating the targets may be more difficult than he'd anticipated, since there are multiple couples who could fit the profile. He's distracted with downloading date when Fi appears in her new dress, but she always looks beautiful, anyway, so there's no reason to make a big deal about it. When she teases him about a ring, he's almost irritated, because this job is serious. Leaving a bio-weapon engineer on the loose is unacceptable. But even he realizes he's pushing limits when he suggests using the long skit of her dress as a climbing rope to escape from the balcony. She doesn't threaten to shoot him, but he knows she's thinking about it.

When they finally settle down for the evening, she extends an olive branch: an invitation to join her in the large jacuzzi bathtub. He's concerned about getting the facts down straight, typing up notes so nothing gets lost. She leaves him alone to do what he wants.

Listening to the target couple argue, he looks at the fake wedding band on his finger. Is this what all marriages are like, fighting and arguments, maybe with bouts of something more tolerable? If so, he and Fi have been married for years. He remembers the British scientist he'd been responsible for babysitting, the first official job Max had given him. That guy had been married for years and years, and hadn't had many good things to say about it. Of course, the scientist had been happy to go back to his wife, after Fi went after him. She's always had a talent for inducing fragile psychological states.

For all their problems, he still can't picture living without her. How many other women would think of a snatch-and-grab as a vacation? And that was probably why she'd agreed to come: this is their version of a vacation.

"Maybe we can vacation there," she'd told him once, when he'd mentioned – what country was it? Afghanistan? She'd hate it there. This is more her kind of place, although she probably wishes there were more guns.

Where is she, anyway?

Still in the jacuzzi. She's rolled up a towel, propped it under her neck, tipped her head back, and appears to be sleeping. Eyes closed, breathing even – she's lucky she hasn't slipped under the water. As it is, she's going to have a very sore neck.

He sits down on one of the steps leading up to the bathtub. He'd like to touch her, but if she startles, she'll end up with a mouthful of water and no small amount of anger.

"Don't you know, it's rude to stare." She doesn't open her eyes, but she does smile. "Done with the notes?"

What is she talking about? Oh yeah – the notes for the job. The reason they're here. One of the reasons.

"They're done."

"Good." Without warning, she splashes him, drenches the front of his shirt. He wipes the water out of his eyes, looks at her.

She's against the far side of the Jacuzzi, watching him, smirking, laughing at him with her eyes.

[]

"Paris is lovely in the spring."

That's what he's thinking about as Pearce's team drives him to some holding facility. He's also thinking about how totally fucked he is this time, because Pearce is just waiting for an excuse to shoot him, and no one knows where his is or is going, and he's not looking forward to finishing his life in Guantanamo.

And he hopes Fi manages to get herself clear before before Pearce's people catch her. Sam, his mom, Jesse – Pearce might haul them in for an hour or two (or ten) – but ultimately, it's just him and Fi on the tape. Pearce believes in justice, which means he's going to end up in a hole so deep he'll never crawl out. It might also mean Pearce could be merciful towards Fi, just lock her up instead of handing her over to MI-6.

It's a nice idea. Unfortunately, the tech has barely finished wiring him up when Fi appears beside him, sporting a shiny set of handcuffs.

"Come back to me." Her voice is soft, knowing everything will be overheard, recorded, and replayed a hundred times. That slant to her eyes, the tilt of her chin, the small quirk at the corner of her mouth – that's a message meant only for him, and he knows what it means.

When he walks away, he doesn't let himself look back.

[]

"I'm calling to say I'm still alive."

"Guess I won't cancel that dinner reservation, then."

"Suppose that depends if you're going to give me a ride home or not."

"I can do that," she says, not quite laughing. "But you'll owe me."

As if he doesn't already.

[]

The next time he talks to her, it's again over the phone – while Larry waits in the other room, probably dreaming up new ways to kill him.

Fi hates Larry. Most of the people she knows fall into one of three categories: those she tolerates, those she dislikes, and those she'd like to shoot. There's a very slender section on each end of the spectrum: those she'd kill to protect, and those she plans to kill. Larry gets a VIP ticket in the last category. It's hard to decide which one of them is truly more dangerous. They're both creative, committed, crazy, capable of doing all sorts of hellish things. In another life, they were probably best friends. Certainly not in this one.

That's one of the reasons he risks getting a call out to her. Larry's sounding like this will be their last meeting. He doesn't want Fi anywhere near this because Larry would love the opportunity to kill her. But, more importantly, it would cause her no end of grief and guilt to watch Larry's idea of justice. Grief and guilt are a toxic mix in anyone, but he's seen it play out in her, doesn't want to even consider it happening again.

"You have to walk away –"

She hangs up on him. No arguments, no discussions. Her decision is made.

This isn't going to end well.

The instant the walls start to shake, the lights flicker, the floor seize beneath him – he knows what she's done. But then there are more explosions from the lobby, and he doesn't understand what she's done.

He finds her in the parking garage across the street, looking at the consulate like it's something she's never seen before. He asks, believes her when she denies responsibility for the bombs in the lobby.

Sam and Jesse don't appear nearly as convinced as he is. She can see their doubts and can't stop saying she's sorry, she didn't know. He drags her away from their friends, afraid if he doesn't, she might actually go into hysterics.

As it is, they're only halfway home when she demands he pull over, right now. He's barely slowed to a stop when the door opens and she dodges a few steps away before dropping to her knees, crying so hard she's making herself sick.

"I didn't mean to hurt them. I really didn't."

It's a side street, but they're certainly not alone. He doesn't care, sits down beside her and pulls her as close as possible, lets her cry herself out.

She's still tearful when they get back to the loft. She goes straight upstairs, shuts herself into the bathroom. He hears the shower turn on, run so long that the hot water has to have run out. He knocks briefly, goes in without waiting for an answer. She's sitting on the floor of the shower, knees drawn up, head resting on her knees. He's personally witnessed her kill people before, without hesitation or second thoughts, using a variety of weapons and tactics – but they were targets. This is so different, now he has absolutely no doubts about her intent to harm the guards. He turns off the water, wraps a towel around her. "Come on, let's get out of here. Come on."

She falls into an exhausted sleep for a few minutes, long enough for him to call Sam and get an update. She's awake again before he even hangs up, dressing and combing her hair and carefully not looking at him or her own reflection. In the kitchen, she puts water on to boil, reaches for a mug in the cabinet and promptly drops it; it hits the counter edge and slips to the floor, where it promptly splits into pieces.

"I've got it, Fi. Just sit down."

"It was my finger on the button. I killed those men."

And then Larry's hostage is standing in their home, a recorder in his hands and a smile on his face. Satan has a new look, glasses and business clothes. The last man left standing, the alpha and the omega of a shadow group responsible for ruining many, many lives, including his – and now, apparently, Fi's as well.

This Anson fellow is off to a tremendous start.

[]

It's an awful night. Fi may have done all her crying, but her eyes have a far away look, like she's watching something in the distance. They both make calls to find information on Anson, both come up with very little. The man might hide his real work in darkness, but in his regular life, he's not hard to find: a shrink with a government job, hiding in plain sight. It's hard to make a plan of defense when they have so little to go on.

"I should've shot him before he had a chance to leave." Her voice is calm, solid – she means it.

"We need to find out what kind of leverage he has before we do anything drastic."

"He's already used me to kill two innocent people. We need to cut our losses."

"And if he really does have the evidence he says he does? Better to do some scouting, assess the threat before making a move."

This would be a fight, if the threat wasn't so unclear, if Anson wasn't such an unknown figure.

Sleep isn't on the menu for the night. There's just too much stress, from the events of the day, the possible events of tomorrow. He's the one who reaches for her; whatever her mix of emotions, she's quiet and distracted, not at all her aggressive self.

"I know you didn't hurt them, Fi," he tells her finally.

"Yeah, I did," she says, sounding like she's simply accepted it, no point trying to fight. "I didn't plan it, but I'm still part of it. No excuses." She smiles a little at him. "I'm not going to pretend I'm innocent in this. Larry found one more way to make our life hard, and this Anson guy is going to finish the job." She paused, then added, "And it's not like I haven't been in this place before. Not the blackmail part – the blind participant part."

She can still surprise him, sometimes. "When?"

"With Armand."

He wants to ask, he really does, but she's more likely to explain if he's quiet.

"I didn't know until later, when it was already done," she says, averting her eyes. "There were some jobs. . . I didn't ask. He said he thought I knew. And when I really needed help, Armand was there. That's his specialty: waiting until you're out of options, then offering what you really need. For a price, of course."

He can't exactly figure out what she means, but it definitely doesn't sound good. He looks down at her, brushes her hair away from her face. "What kind of help?"

She explains the why, not the how. "I had to get out of Ireland. O'Neil on my right, MI-6 on my left, associates threatening my family – I ran out of places to hide. Armand got me out when no one else could."

And where had he been? Some part of the former Soviet block? Somewhere in Africa? He doesn't even know what year she's talking about. She'd been scrambling for help, and he'd been nowhere in sight. He didn't miss that she hadn't explained her part of the deal with Armand, either, which could mean all kinds of things. "I'm sorry. If I'd known – "

"You'd have done what? Better that I swallow my pride and ask for another favor than you get caught breaking into government security systems."

That's not what he wanted to apologize for. At least, it isn't the only thing. "Fi – "

"My point here is that I'm familiar with this game. And I won't play it again."

"Just – let's not do anything hasty. You have options, this time." He can't change the past, can't go back and do things differently. But he can keep the same problems from happening again. Whether she agrees with him or not, it's hard to tell.

Morning finds him in a place hardly different from the night before: tired and stressed and feeling like things are about to go very wrong.

Her quiet continues, is unsettling and worrisome. It could be fatigue or nerves or guilt or something else.

As he's about to walk out the door for his meeting with Pearce, he looks at her and asks, "Are you going to be here when I get back?" He means so that they can compare notes, assess if any meaningful information on Anson has surfaced. Her brief look of surprise warns him that she thinks he means something different.

He closes the door, walks back over to the kitchen bench. "What are you doing, Fi?"

She smiles. "Going out for groceries."

He notices she's got one of her larger bags on the bench. "What's in there?"

"Car keys, lipstick, hand sanitize –" She stops, seeing the look on his face. Rolling her eyes, she pulls out a small revolver and a long switchblade.

All she has to do is follow him to Anson after his meeting with Pearce. Her intention is clear.

"We talked about this," he tells her. "No hasty moves."

"You said that," she corrects. "I say, if I'm going to be responsible for killing people, it might as well be four instead of three."

And he can't stop her, if that's her plan, no more than he could stop her from exterminating Larry or holding herself responsible for part of harming the two guards. His only hope is to convince her to postpone her plan. If she agrees, she won't back out. "Please, Fi?"

The silence stretches out, but she finally tosses up her hands. "Fine, yes, okay. But I think we're both going to regret this later."

[]

Anson is one of the smartest people he's ever run across – completely corrupt and evil, but smart. Which is doubtlessly why the man's never been caught.

Fi is ready to cut herself loose at the first of Anson's demands. "I don't think you should do anything for that parasite."

He's not about to let that happen. Once again he's in the position of not knowing the words to convince, to explain: it doesn't matter what Anson assigns him to do, he's going to do it. He'll work on fixing things later. Every demand only makes him more determined to hold onto her.

"There is no end to this," she warns him again and again.

Soon Sam starts to echo her warning. Then Jesse. Then his mom. He hears what they're saying, but it doesn't matter very much. This decision was made years ago.

His biggest problem isn't completing the jobs Anson throws at him: it's getting Fi not to answer the problem herself. She's told him time after time through the years that she doesn't need his permission to do what she wants (as if he could ever forget.) Now he catches her staring at a riffle, fingering a block of C4, and he can practically hear her thoughts. It worked for Larry; why not Anson? He's asked her not to do it, but she's coming dangerously close. Patience is not one of her virtues, and this time, the lack of it could be her downfall.

Computer virus. Money transfers.

A continual downward spiral.

Now he's the one constantly craving physical contact, reaching for her at any opportunity or excuse. She laughs, says it's about time he came around to her point of view. She doesn't ask why – she either already knows or doesn't care. Maybe both.

With every one of Anson's demands, she tries to convince him that he should let her go.

"I should disappear."

That's not an option.

Multiple times, he catches her and Sam having whispered conversations. It doesn't take a genius to guess what they're talking about.

He arranges to meet Sam for a beer at Carlito's.

"I need a favor, Sam. I want you to tell Fiona that we can handle this Anson problem right here, right now, together."

Sam gives him an innocent look. "I haven't said – " Seeing the expression on his face, Sam's denial quickly dies. "Look, Mike, it's like she said. She's not some damsel in distress. Remember when the agency first sent you after her? Remember why they did that? She loves you, but that doesn't mean she doesn't know how to take care of herself."

He nods, tries to make his next words sound less like a threat than a fact. "How long have we known each other? How long have we been friends?"

Sam turns his beer bottle in his hands. "Long time, Mike – a long time."

"Yeah." He meets Sam's eyes. "If you convince her to do anything on her own – we're done."

"Oh, come on, Mike – "

"You can tell Jesse that, too. Or I will."

[]

"Okay, Michael – I'm up for a good time as much as the next girl, but this isn't you." She lays an arm over his chest, rests her chin on it to look at him. "What's going on? Besides the obvious."

So maybe she doesn't know what he's been thinking. They've come full circle, now that things are falling apart. What is that – irony? Galactic payback? Or just really bad luck?

"I thought this was your favorite way of reducing stress," he answers, smiling, tracing her shoulderblade with a gentle hand.

She only looks at him, waiting.

There's no escaping her when she's like this. He starts to say something, changes his mind, tries again. "I know things. . aren't going very well. We just need a little more time."

"How do you see this ending, Michael?"

Many ways, few of them good.

She laughs a little, doesn't sound amused. "We have two options: I can go to the authorities, turn myself in – or we kill Anson."

He knows that voice. She's busted down the situation to two choices, one or the other, A or B. It's a measure of how much she cares that she's decided to give him a vote. They've worn off on each other.

"The instant he's dead, we'll have to run, and we may not ever be able to stop," he says slowly.

"Then we'll go to the authorities, hand them the evidence – "

" – And maybe they'll let me be an observer at your execution. You're looking at capital punishment, Fi."

"There have been people wanting me dead for all of my adult life. I can handle that. What I can't handle is Anson running you like an asset, and using me to do it."

He looks up at the ceiling. "We just need a little more time."

[]

When he really thinks about it – there's never been enough time for them. Or, there might have been, but he threw it away. If he could have just one more chance. . .

Given the two options, he decides to go with Option B. All he has to do is get Anson into position for her to take the shot.

He's the one who flinches, not her. As much as he hates Anson – as much as the man might be playing him – he can't risk it. He won't.

This time, when they fight, neither of them wins. There's nothing left to win.

The minute after he tells her about Anson's latest demand, he knows he's made a mistake. He can see it on her face: the way her eyes soften, the kind smile she saves for children and hopeless choices. Her voice is very gentle when she tells him, "They deserve better."

Hasn't she figured it out yet? No one ever gets what they deserve. He can't meet her eyes. "Just – just a little more time."

Before he leaves with Jesse for the job, he gives Sam a significant look. "I'm counting on you," he quietly tells his friend.

"I know, Mike," Sam says softly.

So when Sam's cell number shows up on his Caller ID, he answers. And when Sam tells him what Fi might be about to do, he leaves. Pearce doesn't know – he'd walk out in the middle of anything, if it meant getting to Fi before she did something dangerous.

She's taking Option A, since the other option is gone. He doesn't need to ask her what she's doing, but he does.

"Just stop," she tells him, not unkindly.

He's not going to do that. A little more time. He only needs a little more time, will do whatever he must to get it – even if it means holding her by force.

(He still remembers that night when he told her, blocking the door so she couldn't leave. She made her very best effort to escape, tried to use a mirror shard that made her own hand gush blood. And the way she'd looked up at him, knew she was out of options, and tried to make one final deal. "There's a way out, for both of us.")

She's forgiven him for that. She'll be able to forgive him for this, too. He really believes that.

Just like he really believes she'll still be in the same place when he gets back.

She isn't.

"You could've left a note," she'd told him once.

"Leaving notes is bad tradecraft," he'd returned.

She'd never said she was a spy, never claimed she wanted to be. Tradecraft doesn't matter to her. Little things matter to her, like saying goodbye.

There's no more time.

III. What Everyone Else Said

After driving around for what seems like hours, Sam finally manages to find his friend.

Mike is sitting in his car, Fi's letter in his left hand, a handgun in his right.

"Hey, there you are." He's long suspected that Mike has occasional suicidal thoughts. He's only actually seen it once, when they were serving overseas and a mission went bad, resulting in the death of almost their entire team. But he's seeing it again now, he's sure.

And Mike's anger is at everything, anything that crosses his path – no exceptions.

"Yeah, maybe I could've fought her off – but has it occurred to you that she was right?" It's a dangerous move, arguing with a man almost ready to break his neck, but it works. Mike is easily motivated by the idea of catching Anson. Very motivated. Motivated, as in homicidal.

If Mike has decided that Anson is dead, then Anson is already dead, he just hasn't fallen down yet. Which may or may not land Mike in jail, but ether way, won't help Fi.

Sam has never really understood why the crazy gunrunner is so appealing to Mike. She's pretty and all, but so are a lot of other women. It can't be her winning personality. Her sanity is doubtful, most of her decisions questionable, her motives consistently on the side of shady. Maybe she has a few good qualities: she's fanatically loyal, super resourceful, great with explosives. And she does clean up good. The bottom line is, it doesn't matter what he thinks about her: she's his best friend's girl, so he's kind of obligated to like her.

It helps that he actually does. Sure, it took awhile, but he's used to her now. He respects her, kinda like a semi-feral alley cat. She does a good job of grounding Mike, odd as that seems. It shouldn't work that way, since she's almost the opposite of him – but, well, it works for them.

And without her, Mike is dancing on the edge of something very, very bad.

He calls in two or three or fifty favors so Mike can get at least a little contact from her: a letter, brief but real, something to hold. When he hands his friend the letter, Mike takes it like it's made of spun glass, so fragile that it might shatter at any minute. Of course, Mike is rather volatile these days, and soon has a short but violent tantrum Sam really wishes he isn't around to see. Sometimes the spy is completely stoic, unreadable in any way – and sometimes Mike does a great impression of Fi, complete with throwing small objects and everything. Neither aspect is very reassuring.

[]

A woman knew her child. Even if Michael had disappeared for a long time, he'd been in Miami for a few years now. If she'd lost track of the young man, she certainly knew the adult.

Fiona had made sure of that. From the moment she'd first talked to the girl, Madeline had known she'd be the bridge back to her son. Fi had given her Michael's cell phone number during their very first conversation. That was when she'd known that girl would be the perfect fit for her oldest son. And she had planned to do everything in her power to make that happen.

"She's not my girlfriend," Michael had said about Fiona, more than once. But she was his mother, and she saw how he looked at the girl, when he thought no one was watching. How he smiled at her. More importantly, how she could get him to do what she wanted. That was good, because Fiona clearly made better decisions about family than Michael did.

Fiona was gone now, and Michael wasn't making very good decisions anymore. About anything. God knew he wasn't talking to her much – he was turning back into the same stranger who'd avoided her for too many years. She didn't like it, but she wasn't sure how to stop it.

She thought maybe Nate could help. Nate had lost his wife, too, although not in the same way. Both her boys were alone, and it broke her heart. She dragged Nate over to Michael's godawful loft, hoping the brothers might be able to support each other, but it didn't work. Michael was focused on Fiona, blind to anything else, didn't want his brother's help and didn't want to help his brother.

Her oldest son was sinking, and she wasn't sure what she could do to help him.

[]

Fi was one of Jesse's closest friends, and if helping her meant doing a few risky things – well, that wasn't much different than usual. He'd never been too big on playing it safe. Besides, he kinda thought maybe he owed her a little.

Mike was the one who trashed his career. He was over that, but he hadn't forgotten that Fi had been the one who helped put his life back together. She hadn't asked for much in return. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things. He was still sorry about the whole lashing out at her thing, threatening her with a gun and all, and it still bugged him that she'd forgiven him for it so quickly. Made him feel a little guilty.

She'd gotten a bad shake on the Anson deal. He was willing to do whatever it took to get her out of the joint. At least so far, it had only been dangerous, not really illegal.

Still, he was tempted to avoid Mike as much as possible. That man was not stable right now, might beat the hell out of anyone at any time. He'd just as rather it not be him.

It was odd to watch Mike with Pearce. He knew Mike liked Pearce, respected her, but he also suspected Mike might be playing her, using her as a way to get to Fi. Mike had a way of playing everyone, sometimes even friends. Pearce was Mike's biggest proponent, biggest advocate in the agency. For her part, Pearce did keep the spy just this side of sanity. That was best for everyone.

It was what was best for Fi. He suspected that these days, that was about all Mike cared about.

Man on a mission. Better to help than to get in the way.

[]

Sam has seen a little of this before in Mike. His friend is a smart guy, great strategist, but sometimes he acts like, if he tries hard enough, he can make things work like he wants them to. That's not life, but Mike doesn't seem to care about that.

Week after week, Mike keeps the loft exactly the way Fi left it. Fresh flowers. Furniture in the same place. No stacks of laundry or dishes. He even walks in once and sees Mike cleaning Fi's little snowglobes. Like Fi is going to show up at any time and get after him for not keeping the place in shape.

He offers to drive Mike to see Fi at the prison. It's a surreal situation: he'd always thought the little bomber would end up in serious trouble, but not like this. Not for something she hadn't done. And he'd never pictured Mike being involved in it. But this is how things turned out, and he doesn't want Mike to be alone. That's not right.

Mike says no at first, then relents, accepts the offer. The spy is holding it together good before the visit, not so good after it.

Sam wants to ask about her, but doesn't. Mike looks ready to snap, one small push away from breaking in a very violent way.

"You know, I told her that being together made us both profoundly unhappy," Mike says.

Really? How long apart and that's what he'd decided to tell her? That wasn't nice.

"She's got a problem," Mike adds.

More than one, Sam wants to say, and doesn't.

[]

When he was young, Michael had a furious temper. He fought with neighborhood boys, kids at school – and his father, of course. But the military had taught him discipline, how to channel his anger into something productive. And frighteningly efficient.

Madeline had to tell her son about Fi's request. The girl needed some box, and whatever was in it, and needed it right now. So she had no choice except to tell Michael about the man who had it, had violently refused to give it to her so she could take it to Fi.

Michael was so angry, she felt like she was looking at the teenager again. Only more frightening. She was sure a good deal of his anger was because of how the man had treated her. She was also sure the other part of his anger – maybe the greater part – was because Fi had asked for something she needed, and the man had refused to give it up.

She'd never seen her son smash another man's face until his nose broke, nor had she ever watched him casually break a man's arm as a kind of afterthought.

Some mothers might be pleased to have such a son, might be proud to have raised a boy capable of such violence. And while she was glad he had the will and skill to defend himself, that anger – that violence – that was his father in him. It made him a better soldier, but not a better man.

[]

Rebecca was not a good person. Rebecca had tried to kill each of them in multiple ways. In Jesse's opinion, she maybe got a D+ on the good-person scale. And that was only because she'd been desperate to help her brother.

And Mike agreed to work with her, because Rebecca could give him Anson.

Jesse had seen Mike make deals with bad guys before. Maybe he'd even understood some of Mike's decisions. But this – this was getting unreal. Who would be next – Vaughn?

He tried to talk to Sam about it. "You don't think these deals of Mike's are getting a little out of hand?"

Sam only shrugged. "You know Mike – when he's in, he's in. And it's Fi, so – he doesn't have any limits."

"Isn't that why Fi turned herself in – because he was going off the reservation?"

"They have history," Sam said, not sounding too happy. "He, uh, walked out on her once. Left her in a jam. You know how Mike gets when he thinks he owes somebody."

Except that Jesse had seen Mike draw the line, refuse to do some things. Fi might be the one who kept Mike on the right side of the game, but she was also the one who sent him to the other camp when she wasn't around.

Jesse knew Nate had issues with gambling, addiction.

Mike had his own form of addiction.

[]

Sam's sorry he supported Mike's decision to help Rebecca in exchange for information on Anson. He really is. But he's even more sorry that he never made any effort, ever, to earn even a little credit with the agency. If he had, maybe he would've been allowed to be on Mike's team when they went to get Anson. As it is, he's stuck doing other things, doesn't know until it's too late that Nate is dead.

Jesse tells him that Mike was so on edge, he tore into his brother and threw him off the team. Jesse tells him Mike was there to watch his brother get shot. It was fast, Jesse says. Nate didn't suffer long.

"I'm sorry, Mike," Sam says. He knows it's next to nothing, the sympathy of others. It doesn't change things. Mike only nods, doesn't have much to say. He's in shock, that's for sure. Mike hasn't been so steady lately, anyway. Now this.

"Do you want me to go with you, when you tell your mom?" he asks. It's about all he has to offer.

[]

All three of them went to pick up Fi. It was late afternoon, not much day left. The prison guards made things rough: her release time was pushed back once, twice. Mike started to get edgy, frowned at the gates like he might do something stupid.

Jesse was a little surprised when Fi walked out. She looked – smaller than he remembered. Definitely thinner. Definitely paler (no more nice tan for her.)

Mike went forward to meet her. She almost skipped the last steps towards him, jumped into his arms. He caught her, of course, but said something that made her bright smile quickly fade.

"You think he told her?" Jesse asked. "He couldn't have waited five minutes, let her be happy for awhile?"

"How would I know?" Sam replied. After a moment he added, "But she sure doesn't look as happy as she did three seconds ago."

Mike finally let her go. Fi walked over to them, did something she never did: hugged each of them fiercely. "You came back for me." She gave both men one of her real smiles, the ones she saved for when she was really happy. It was probably as close to a thank-you as she ever got. "Now tell me, what the hell's going on?"

Jesse and Sam exchanged glances.

Mike put his arms around her, pulled her back against him. "Thanks for coming, guys. We'll meet you for dinner later. At the Forge," he added, looking down at her.

Fi smiled up at him, laughed a little. "All I had to do was get locked up for you to keep a reservation."

So Mike hadn't told her about Nate; she was just guessing that something was wrong.

Jesse didn't want to be around for that talk. It wasn't his business, and he didn't want to watch. Fi seemed so happy – how long would that last, once she knew? "Glad you're out, Fi. Life isn't the same without you."

"Yeah, I guess not," Sam agreed. "Dinner at eight. You two go play for awhile."

Mike did his best to smile. Fi waved for all of five seconds before she turned, wrapped her arms around Mike, and kissed him like they'd been apart for months.

[]

Sam isn't surprised when Mike calls to cancel dinner. He's tempted to make some smart-ass remark, but Mike doesn't sound like now's the best time. Instead he agrees to meet them at the loft in the morning to talk about Nate's investigation.

"I'll be there at eleven. Eleven in the morning. Tomorrow. I expect everyone to be fully dressed when I get there. At eleven."

"I got it, Sam," Mike says, and his voice does sound a little lighter.

He's still careful to knock when he gets there, doesn't even try the latch.

"It's open."

It's like nothing ever happened, like the pair have never been apart. Mike's got maps spread on the bed and is tracing routes to somewhere. Fi's at the bench, frowning at a laptop screen.

Sam realizes this is how the last time went, too. Back when Mike had first been dumped in Miami. Fi had been in the loft the first time Sam had walked in, parked on the bed like she'd always been there. New look, new accent, same Fi. Same Mike, acting like she'd always been there.

Maybe they aren't such a bad pair.

[]

It wasn't right, for a mother to have to bury her child. It wasn't natural. Children were supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around.

One brother wasn't supposed to be responsible for the other's death.

She wasn't a young woman anymore. Her sons were grown. She had one grandchild, wanted a lot more. After her marriage, she deserved happy golden years.

As it was, one son was in a coffin, and the other one she could barely stand to look at. When she had to talk to him, she still didn't look directly at him.

Fiona – she was able to deal with Fiona. The girl was behind bars when the nightmare happened. She might have been the motive behind Michael's actions, maybe, but wasn't responsible for putting him up to it. Actually, she thought if Fiona had known about Nate's part of the plan, the girl would've thrown a fit. Maybe that wasn't true, but that was what she wanted to believe.

So when she had to communicate with Michael, she went through Fiona.

It was Fiona who showed up at the house after the funeral, sat with her at the table without asking for anything, not judging her in any way. They had a few drinks, listened to some quiet music. When she suddenly felt like looking at Nate's baby pictures, Fiona smiled and listened to her stories.

"You know I hold Michael responsible for Nate's death," she told the girl. "At least partially. And myself."

Fi nodded. "I know." Nothing else – no attempt to argue or change her mind.

She was grateful for that.

[]

There was something going on between Mike and Fi. Jesse didn't know what it was, but it was something. And not something good.

He overheard them arguing one night after they'd all met for dinner. Out in the parking lot, standing beside the Charger.

"And what did you think I was going to do?" Fi demanded. "Become some housewife? Come on, Michael – I've always been who I am."

"I'm just saying, it's too risky for you to be doing that right now. Greyson's people are still looking for you – "

"You think staying still will change that?" Fi tossed up her hands. "Let's not do this here."

The fighting itself wasn't unusual. He'd just thought it would take longer to start up again. Maybe some kind of a honeymoon or something.

Some things never changed, he guessed.

[]

After Mike and Fi do that gig in exchange for Nate's FBI file, there's a noticeable change between them. Like things have settled down, gone back to normal.

Sam's known for a long time that Mike doesn't do well without a target, someone to hunt. Now he has one. Mike can be patient, as long as there's a goal to work towards. The spy can almost be – normal. Kinda. More towards normal on the sanity spectrum.

But when Mike has a goal, everything becomes about reaching the goal. When Mike asks him to borrow a few (very expensive) things from Elsa, he's not thrilled. Not surprised, either. But definitely not thrilled. Especially about borrowing a car. Mike has a bad track record with borrowed cars – sometimes they don't come back in such good shape. Sometimes they don't come back at all. But it's for Nate, so he gets Elsa to loan Mike the stuff.

Of course, now that he has the goods, Mike doesn't pick up the phone, only Fi's car is at the loft and she isn't answering her phone, so he's going to have to leave an outrageously expensive timepiece and the other stuff in a place that couldn't keep out a ten year old thief.

The instant the door is unlocked and he steps inside, he knows he's made a mistake.

Mike has Fi pushed up against a wall, she's got a leg up at his hip – at least they're (mostly) still dressed–

"Get out," Mike says, not bothering to look at him.

He's out the door in a second, gets down the steps and back into his care in record time.

"I know we've talked about locked doors before," Mike tells him later, over drinks at Carlito's.

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry," he stumbles. "But, to be fair, you knew I was bringing over Elsa's stuff. You should pick up your phone when I call. This is really your fault."

"Just don't do it again," Mike replies.

[]

Sometimes Jesse forgot that Fi didn't like people.

He knew that, on an operation, generally the team was selected by the brass. Somebody high-up on the food chain decided who was best suited for the job. Mike knew that – probably didn't like it, but accepted it. Sam didn't seem to have too much of a problem with it. But Fi – Jesse thought she'd rather go it alone than have to work with someone she didn't like. And since she didn't really like anyone. . .

Sam had once told him that he was lucky Fi had liked him from the beginning. He'd assumed Sam was joking. Several years and a few hundred events later, he understood that Sam had been serious. And he understood that his life could've been a lot worse, if she hadn't been on his side.

Like the guy the agency had sent to run the operation in Panama. Fi had already decided she didn't like Brady before they left Miami. Since being more than barely civil wasn't part of a cover story, she didn't pretend otherwise.

When Mike tried to cover for her, claimed she was just jet lagged, Jesse almost laughed. Didn't know why the dude even tried.

As they were setting up base, he overheard Mike tell her not to shoot Brady. "We might need him later."

"For what – a doorstop?" Fi returned. But she refrained from threatening Brady. Verbally, anyway – she walked out on Brady's briefing, walked right out without making a single excuse. But she left the door open to the room where she'd withdrawn, was listening carefully, he was sure.

Sam only rolled his eyes at her behavior. Mike threw Brady a bone, told the man not to take it personally.

That wasn't the best advise. He would never tell anyone to ignore Fi. That was not smart.

Mike kept his thoughts to himself. That was what it cost to live with Fi, apparently. If the situation was different, they'd probably be fighting. He didn't know what made it different this time – the last time they'd all been in a jam like this, with Vaughn breathing down their necks, the two had almost been as dangerous to each other as Vaughn had been. Now they weren't arguing with words, just wills. They seemed to be really trying to get along.

When Grey's men found them, surprised them early in the morning, they had to skiddaddle to keep from being exterminated. Mike did this weird thing, tried to shield Fi from any potential falling debris from the ceiling breech. Fi gave Mike her best What the hell?expression. Not fighting, not exactly getting along. It was good enough. Whatever.

As for Brady – well, he suspected Fi decided to give the guy a chance right before the airstrike took him out. Possibly because the guy was willing to use himself as bait. It was a hell of a way to prove good intentions. Moves like that were sometimes enough to get Fi to give a guy a chance.

Tyler Grey didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell. Fi was ready to execute him herself if Mike didn't do it. She apparently had no problem shooting a bound prisoner laying face-down on the ground, which was something he'd never seriously thought she was vicious enough to do. It was him and Sam who urged Mike not to kill Grey, to take him back with them instead. Sam worked on Mike while he took on Fi, which was pointless since she'd already made her decision. Why Mike chose to listen to Sam over Fi, he'd never know. She was certainly furious about it.

He didn't like this side of Fi, or Mike. He didn't like it at all.

[]

Mike and Fi are fighting again. Even when they're supposed to be playing dead, they're still fighting. Sam's glad Elsa has enough space that the two can each go to their separate corners.

"Have they always been like this, or is it just me?" Jesse asks him. "They might actually kill each other."

He looks at Jesse. "Really? This is news to you? Leave them alone – unless you want to be collateral damage."

Fi has reasons to be angry. Mike has reasons to focus on his new goal. If they can find a way to work together on this, Card will be gone within a week.

"I need help," Fi finally says, pulling him aside. "I met a woman in prison – she's out now, having problems with a dirty cop going after her. I need an extra set of hands."

"Did you ask Mike?"

"Yes or no, Sam?" Fi demands. After a minute she adds, "He's focused on this Card thing. He's out."

The man who bent over backwards to get her out of jail doesn't think this is a good idea? "Maybe he's right about this. We're supposed to be dead, remember?"

"Doesn't matter. I owe her."

He looks at her askance. "That much?"

"More than that."

Mike isn't going to like this. Sam's come to the conclusion that sometimes the ex-terrorist makes better choices than the spy. (Sometimes. Sometimes they're both nuts.) "Well, I guess somebody has to make sure you don't wipe out an entire precinct."

He doesn't tell Mike that he's going along with Fi. There's no reason for him to get caught in the middle of their fighting. But he does make it clear he thinks Fi is making a mistake, helping this woman. Helping criminals isn't his thing.

"We've done it before," Fi encourages. "Besides, I'm a convict, too. And we get along, right?"

Most of the time.

When he gets a few more details on the situation, however, he changes his mind, is glad he decided to do it. "Did you tell Mike the whole situation here?"

"He's busy right now." She doesn't even sound angry anymore.

"What exactly did this woman do for you, Fi?" Sam asks finally, when the gig gets more complicated.

At first, he doesn't think she's going to tell him. "She helped me disappear, when I needed to disappear." That's it – that's her idea of an explanation. She doesn't have patience, doesn't like people, doesn't explain things. That's Fi.

They need Jesse, and they need Mike. This is too big a project for only the two of them. Sam takes Mike, Fi takes Jesse.

"She's serious about this, Mike. She isn't going to let this go," Sam warns his friend. "Do you know what the deal is?"

"Fiona doesn't tell me everything," Mike tells him testily. He relents a little, adds, "Give me what you have and I'll take a look. But the goal is Card. No distractions."

Fi has a much easier time enlisting Jesse's help: she just plays him. "That boy's going to grow up without a mother. You know something about that."

When things really go sideways, Sam thinks he really deserves to know what exactly is the score between the two women, because it might be time to do something drastic. "Spit it out, Fi."

Fi rolls her eyes. "I told you – she helped me disappear –"

" – From who?"

"MI-6." Fi watches him closely, ganging his reaction. "The Brits found me, gave me the option of signing a new confession or leaking my presence at their new consulate. On a live broadcast." She's still watching him closely. "Do you know what would have happened to my family, back in Ireland, if that happened?"

Sam knows, doesn't even have to guess. "Mike –"

"Michael doesn't need to know, and I'm asking you not to tell him," Fi says quickly. "He couldn't have done anything. But Ayn was in a position to do something, and she did." She hesitates, adds, "Do you really think Michael needs any more guilt? Any more distractions?"

He agrees, doesn't say anything. But when Mike finally agrees to help, it's a huge relief.

Jesse now understood why Mike and Fi had fought so fiercely during times of stress: it was the universe trying to keep itself from imploding. The pair changed at some point, have currently resolved their numerous issues to work together. The result was both daunting and disturbing: each crisis made them more violent, verging on the edge of vicious. He didn't remember them being like this before, not ever, and he'd seen them both backed into corners more than once.

How exactly was this game started? He'd walked in after several chapters – or, been dragged in. The Vaughn Chapter: that was when he'd arrived. Before Vaughn, Sam said there was a Simon, and a Management. Before that, a Carla. Afterwards, there was an Anson and a Card. Somewhere towards the beginning, there had been a Sam and a Fi. And, of course, at the very beginning – a Michael.

Look who was left standing. Mostly standing. Maybe just surviving.

Now there was a Riley. Jesse was so disappointed that the legendary figure fell into the same category as Anson and Vaughn. She had always kinda been one of his heroes. Huge bummer. It was a mixed-up world, getting more mixed-up every day. Some of the things that were starting to happen. . .

Mike killed Card (not in self-defense); Fi said he'd made the right choice. Fi used explosives to kill whoever crossed their paths; Mike said it was necessary. The more things spiraled downwards, the more destructive the pair got, and things were becoming really shady.

"Are you getting a shaky feeling here, some of the stuff we're doing?" he finally asked Sam.

"You kidding me?" Sam returned.

"No, no – I'm not criticizing. I'm still in. Go team. It's just –"

"Yeah, I know," Sam said heavily, sighing. "You ever seen Mike's real service record?"

Jesse shook his head. Boundaries: he believed in them. With friends, at least.

"Ever read Fi's Interpol record?"

Again with the boundaries, although he had been really tempted. "No."

Sam laughed a little. "Brother, you and I should get medals just for keeping up with them. Some of the things we're getting into. . . Yeah, I hear you. But I'm in, no matter what."

He understood that. So was he. No matter what.

[]

After her first week in jail, Madeline had firmly decided she didn't like it. She didn't like the tiny room, didn't like the food, certainly didn't like the constant isolation. At least she could smoke – probably because they were afraid to see her go through withdrawal.

Questions, questions. Finally they accepted her answers. Or just got tired of asking.

She had her own questions. Where was her son? And her pseudo-daughter-in-law? And her foster sons? Were any of them hurt, or (god forbid) dead? Sam had been seriously wounded. She wasn't even sure how long she'd been here. She wanted to go home, and she wanted all her family to go with her.

And she wanted more smokes.

Then, it was just – over. Some young man in a suit invited her to step out of her cell. She met Sam and Jesse in the hallway.

"You two okay? Are they letting us go now?" she asked them.

"Or taking us to a firing squad," Sam said.

"That's not true," Jesse told her.

"Where's Michael and Fiona?" she asked the young men in suits. "Where's my son?"

"This way, ma'am," they kept answering.

"At least they talk to her," Sam grumbled.

"They only ask me questions," Jesse agreed. "I'm a little insulted. That's ageist, and sexist."

Madeline appreciated the humor, but she would appreciate answers more.

The young suit-men took them to some kind of open area, like a garage, only bigger.

And there was her son, and Fiona.

She felt a huge rush of relief, almost started to laugh.

"What's going on?" Jesse muttered to Sam.

"You think I have supersonic hearing?" Sam hissed back. "You see the same thing I do."

Madeline took another look, a closer look at her son and his girlfriend.

Fiona was crying – not just a little, a lot. Michael said something, and it made her cry harder. He reached towards her, but she stepped back.

"Can someone please tell me what the hell's going on?" Madeline demanded.

"This does not look good," Jesse answered.

[]

Fi shut him out. All of them, actually – but Jesse felt like she was more silent with him than she was with Sam or Maddie.

"She's not answering my calls, either," Sam told him patiently. "Sometimes she'll send a text, if I really bug her. I think Maddie. . . She might have told Maddie where she is."

"Did she skip town?"

Sam just looked at him. "Leave her alone, Jesse. If she wants you, she knows how to find you."

Jesse didn't like that answer. He wanted to know if Fi was okay. They were still friends, last time he checked.

Of course, things were a little different now. Maybe more than a little different.

He started actively hunting for her. Miami was such a huge city. . . If she wasn't hiding, she was still doing a damn good job of not being found.

Sam wouldn't help him look for her.

Jesse remembered how he'd felt, after finding out about the truth behind the abrupt end of his career. Fiona had finally hunted him down, told him they were still friends. He'd like to return the favor, if he could.

It was mostly be accident, finding her. One time Mike had told him about this bar Fi had really liked – it had some kind of band, served some kind of drink. . . Mike had pretty much hated it, but Fi really liked it, so. . .

That was where Jesse found her. And her fan club, four or five guys hanging on her every word and gesture. He promptly phoned a friend. "Hey, yeah, Sam. Fi's in trouble."

Sam showed up grumpy. "What's the problem? Where is she?" Looking into the crowd, he said, "You dragged me down here at two in the morning because she's in a bar?"

"Look at her, Sam – she's plastered. She's going to end up in a bad situation."

Sam ran a hand over his face. "Jesse, she's former IRA. If she wants to have a good time, it's her business. She's on the rebound. Stay out of her way."

"You know what? I'll take care of it myself."

"Don't." Sam caught his arm. "Trust me, brother. You go over there, and whatever happens, you'll be sorry. She won't."

[]

Madeline handed Fi a glass of iced tea. "So where you headed?"

Fi smiled at her. "Sure you want to know?"

"'Course I do," Madeline answered, blowing a stream of smoke at her.

"Australia."

"That's a continent. Be more specific, honey."

The younger woman shrugged.

"You don't have to leave town, you know."

"I should. I need a new start."

"You've been here a few years now. You really want to go to a new city – a new country – start from scratch? How many times have you done that already? How many times you plan on doing it again?"

"As many times as I have to, I guess."

"You have to?" Madeline exhaled a long stream of smoke. "You sound like Michael." After a minute she asked, "Do you think he's still alive?"

Again Fi shrugged. "It's not like he calls me."

"Yeah, me neither."

[]

When Sam shows up to meet Fi for lunch at Carlito's, Fi isn't alone: there's a large Hispanic man with her. The man has short hair and kind eyes. And multiple gang tattoos.

"Sam, this is Carlos," Fi says. "We met while hunting the same bail jumper."

She's introducing him to her new boyfriend. Sam thinks for a minute, decides it's a good sign. If this guy makes her happy, then good for her. It's not like she was the one who left Mike.

Mike is his best friend. He tries not to criticize. But Mike sure hasn't made that easy.

Jesse seems more surprised, looks like he's halfway through lunch before he realizes what's going on. Then he starts covertly interrogating the guy until Fi glares at him behind Carlos' back.

Later Jesse asks him, "Did you catch those tats on the guy? Think Fi knows what they mean?"

"Probably, yes," Sam laughs. "She went with a paramedic, once, but it didn't last very long. This guy is more her type." He considers reminding Jesse that this Carlos is a lot less dangerous than Mike is.

"When did you become an expert on Fi?"

Even Fi may not be an expert on Fi. Mike knows her best, and who knows where Mike is these days?

IV. What They Both Said

There were just some things a girl couldn't forget. Important things, like how to match accessories to an outfit. How to pull a trigger while exhaling. Choosing shoes with arch support. Calculating the blast radius for explosives.

Recognizing the style of another marksman.

There was no way in hell Sam made that shot. He'd have a better chance of winning the lottery jackpot. The guard with the automatic? He had them all pinned down. She'd been in the situation plenty of times in her life – she recognized the problem when she was in it.

And Carlos. . . She was fond of him (maybe more than fond), but, dear God, sometimes he made the worst, emotion-based tactical decisions. Yanking her down while she was trying to fire? Planning a hail-mary dash and taking Jesse along, too?

She recognized that marksman's style.

It was either Michael, or she was going crazy. Wind, trajectory, sound: the shot had come from that abandoned car, which just happened to be missing a rear-door window. She started to walk towards it, then stopped.

True or false – better not to know.

Ten minutes later, she was kicking herself for not checking. Since when had she started thinking it was better not to know something?

For example: before the day was over, she was tied to a chair facing a madman with a straight razor. She'd already played this game (just ask O'Neil how that had turned out.) This killer wanted her to tell him where Michael was, and she had no fucking idea. None. At least if she did, she could feel justified in not talking.

She could swear her life used to be more fun. Actually, once she would've said her life was overall fun, sprinkled with a few not-fun periods. Not anymore.

She thought Sam or Jesse or Carlos might be faking Michael's voice on the phone, until she heard him say her name. Anywhere, any time, any place: she'd always know that voice.

Michael was responsible for dragging her into this mess, and here he was to drag her out. Was that supposed to be some kind of fair?

She was never going to escape from him, no matter how hard she tried. (She still remembered that night, sometimes, when he'd told her the reasons for being involved with her. . . She'd tried so hard to get out, get free. "There's a way out, for both of us," she'd offered.)

There was no way out for her now. Even when the madman was dead at her feet, she still couldn't escape. Michael wouldn't stay with her and wouldn't cut her loose.

She said the only thing she had left to convince him. "I'm taken." So please, let me go.

For a short while, a few brief days, she thought, maybe – but then Michael decided to pick up the phone, proving he still knew how to find her, had simply chosen not to. Until he wanted something. Like she was an asset.

"I can't keep doing this," she told him. Then she gave in, like she always did. They both knew he was playing her, and she let him do it anyway. She was a fool.

When Stern told her about the reasons for Michael's abrupt departure months before, she wanted to shoot two men: the one who left her, and the one who made him leave. It was too late now; done was done.

She'd known the risks when she'd decided to relocate to Miami. One look at him and she'd dumped her entire life, knew she was making a bad decision and did it anyway. She'd rolled the dice, made herself believe she'd won, even though now she knew she hadn't. Never had, never would.

When you played with sharp things, sometimes you got cut. She wasn't playing anymore, but she was still getting cut.

There was no end in sight.

[]

He recognizes the expression on Fi's face when she sees Sonja. They aren't even together anymore, and she's still jealous. And when Fi tells Sonja that her help doesn't come cheap, ignorant Sonja assumes Fi is talking about money.

Fi collects debts in many, many ways.

He certainly owes her, not least of all because Stern has forced her into this corner. He tries to offer her a way out, a clean chance to pass on the gig. What does she say? "I can't owe you my freedom, Michael. I just can't." She doesn't even sound angry, just resigned, stuck in a place she can't escape.

How do they end up in the same place every time?

When Fi sits across from Sonja, he can almost read her mind: she'd love to shoot the blond woman, quickly and without second thoughts. He makes sure to stand beside Fi or between the two of them as often as possible. Sonja is ruthless and without regrets for any of her actions. Fi can be like that, too, but has more experience and makes much faster decisions.

He needs Sonja to get further into the organization. He won't be able to do that if Fi kills her first.

Working with Fi is its own form of agony. If the cover requires it, she talks to him like they're companions. The instant the witnesses are gone, she communicates without really saying anything. It's worse than when they used to fight. At least then, there had been real talking (and yelling.) Now she fixes her eyes on some distant sight and never, never says what she's thinking.

It's not until she's literally on the verge of life-threatening harm that he remembers how much he loves her. Every time: lost in a house fire, face down in an ocean, locked into a prison cell. Holding on by a tenuous grip, hundreds of feet in the air. Everything else disappears, and he's able to remember that all he wants is her, safe and happy. Why is that so easy to ignore, all the other times?

He needs this deal with Stern to be over. He thinks he might stand a real chance with Fi if he dumps the agency. She'd screamed, demanded it for years; if he offers it to her now, maybe she'll take it. She's forgiven him for worse things. So whatever needs to be done to move the process along, he's willing to do it.

Even if it means getting Sonja into bed so she'll vouch for him further up the hierarchy. It's the fastest way to build her trust. So he sells her the I-have-nothing line, plays on her isolation and loneliness.

He regrets the decision almost immediately. He can pretend the woman next to him is Fi, but it's not. This fiasco is going to get out, no way to prevent it. His choices will get back to Fi, somehow, and any chance he has of getting her back will be absolutely gone.

Unless he can explain himself first. It's pretty much his final option.

Easier planned than done. He stands on the dock, watching the light over the water, can't think of a single good way to tell her. He could change his plan, tell her some lie for insisting on her presence right now. . . And if (when) she finds out, create another lie to cover the first lie. Have a few months apart lessened her ability to spot his lies? It's not worth the risk. But any combination of words he assembles shatter when he considers saying them aloud.

"What's so important I had to run out in the middle of a job?" Fi asks impatiently. She's annoyed and irritated, hands tucked into her pockets and head tilted to the side, looking up at him.

He feels like his mouth is full of sand. He can only toss out a handful of words.

She figures it out very quickly. "Why are you telling me this?" She'd accidentally smashed her hand once, distracted by him, and she'd cursed in the same tone she talks to him now. Trying to dismiss the pain, cover it with anger. She throws a few more phrases at him, turns and leaves without more discussion.

It would've been easier if she'd just yelled, cursed or called him an idiot. She doesn't even accuse him of making a mistake, provides no chance for apology. It's not what he had imagined she'd do.

[]

Michael was sprawled onto the dock, looked like he wasn't breathing, and she was out of the boat so fast she almost slipped on the wet planking. Jesse caught her arm, kept her from falling, but she yanked away from him the instant she was steady.

"Mikey – Mike!" Sam shouted, rolling Michael over and smacking his face.

"Don't, Sam – he's out," Jesse warned. "Not dead, just out."

She was so relieved, she thought she might actually be ill. Later – later she was going to cry like a little girl, because he had really looked dead. But he wasn't, not yet.

Sam and Jesse scooped him up, got him into the car. She sat in the backseat with him, his head resting on her lap. She'd already played this game before, not too long ago, except it had been Sam in the backseat with Michael. There was more panic in her, this time, more than simple fear: panic, bitter and cloying. Damn him – it wasn't enough that he'd had a fling with Sonja, he had to make her worry he was dead, too? She'd smack him, if he wasn't already unconscious.

"We've got to get him to a hospital," Jesse told Sam.

Since Sam was driving, he got to pick the destination. "No. Too many questions. We'll take him to Maddie's, keep an eye on him there. If they wanted him dead, he'd be dead."

She couldn't argue with that. But, dammit, he was so pale and cold. . .

Maddie had the couch made out with blankets and sheets by the time they got there. His mother turned pale herself when she saw him, then started barking orders like she was a professional at this kind of thing.

Sam went back to get pictures of where Michael had been held. Maddie rotated in and out of the room, split between caring for her son and grandson. Jesse got on the phone and tried to get some information. She just sat beside Michael and waited. Patience wasn't her thing, but she couldn't leave, didn't want to.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Michael made decisions, left everyone else to clean up the mess. His decisions were getting worse and worse. She wanted him to change, not die. If he would wake up, she'd forgive him for that thing with Sonja. Or, at least she'd try. She really would.

After a few hours, he started to show some signs of improvement. His breathing evened out, his color came back. Eventually he opened his eyes, saw her but seemed confused.

"There you are," she said. She went to kneel down at his eye level. "What the hell did you get yourself into this time?"

"Fi." Said nothing else, looked at her with dazed, unfocused eyes. Then he started to cry like a small child, and she couldn't console him, no matter how she tried.

"What's going on?" Jesse asked. He saw Michael, looked at her and repeated, "What happened?"

There was no short answer, no one answer to that question.

[]

James' crew left him basic essentials – sheets, blankets, an ice-chest full of yogurt and bottled water. Several sets of clothes, his sizes, still in original packages. They even cleaned the loft a little, swept up ashes and charred bits of furniture.

They took away all Fi's snowglobes. It makes him feel angry and alone. Those weren't theirs to take, since they weren't even his. Now he doesn't have anything of hers.

He decides to go ahead and check the loft for bugs. It isn't reassuring not to find any – James and his crew aren't big on trust, no matter what they say.

He has a meeting with James later. He doesn't know the time, place, or even the day. Could be tomorrow, could be next week. Staying in the loft, this place where he's lived since being in Miami – he doesn't like it anymore. Waiting on some vague meeting doesn't make things better.

There's little he can do to change things. It all hinges on someone else now.

Fi walks in while he's reviewing his yogurt choices. For a minute it feels like yesterday, when she would show up without warning, with or without a reason.

"You look like you're feeling better," she says, shutting and locking the door behind her. She comes to look at the yogurt with him. "No blueberry?"

He has to smile at that. There are some things James' people still don't know. "Not right now."

She takes his hand, turns it palm up. "Huh. Looks like that cut is healing well." Lightly she traces a word across his skin: Bugged?

"Not as far as I can tell." He looks away from her for a moment. "They took your snowglobes. I thought I could keep them until you wanted them back."

"It's alright, Michael," she tells him. "I'll let you get me some new ones. I'll make a list."

He looks back to her, finds her smiling up at him the way she used to. "I'm sure you will."

Her smile takes on a different hue. "You made me worry, you know," she says, swallowing. "I hate it when you do that." She puts her arms around him, lays her head against his shoulder.

"Sorry." He hugs her, meaning it to be a brief thing, finds he doesn't want to let her go. They'd been together a long time, give or take a few absences. This is the woman he wants, has always wanted. She's right here, voluntarily, not because it's part of some cover story. This is real.

His kisses her forehead. She smiles up at him like she has a thousand times before. Almost like an afterthought, she stretches up to kiss him. It's just an old habit, he's sure. But it doesn't feel like an old habit: it feels very real and very now. Very much like something he's missed and wants back.

She's always had an unfair advantage, as far as reading him goes. When his hands rest on her hips, she already has an idea about what's going on. "Not a good idea," she warns. She looks at him seriously and adds, "Really."

They've been split for months, not years. It's not even a little difficult to remember her style of romance, what she likes and how she reacts. He wants her to stay, wants to erase the memories of Sonja.

"Hey – hey," she says, catching his hands. "You're in the middle of an agency gig, and I have a boyfriend."

"And you're good at overlooking things, when you want to," he returns. It's easy to break the hold she has on his hands, even easier to pull her into a different hold, one that brings her tightly against him.

It never had taken much to convince her. She's a wiling participant almost immediately. Although she's still trying to say something, which is a little different, but can easily be ignored. It's her and the memories of the last years that he wants right here, right now.

Logistics have always been an issue because their height difference; years together have provided plenty of solutions. Usually she's the aggressor, has at least an equal share of the decisions, but right now she's not showing any preferences. It's different but fine; he has no problem just picking her up and settling her against him, her back to the wall.

"I can't keep doing this," she says, barely a whispers against his neck.

It certainly seems like she can. It really does. "Sure about that?"

"I – dammit, never mind." Her aggressive streak is starting to surface. "You've got me too close. I can't get rid of these clothes so back off."

That's her idea of consent; he can stop thinking she's going to change her mind. He can stop thinking altogether.

Afterwards he sits on the floor with her in his lap, curled against him, his arms loosely circling her. It's another old habit. If this place wasn't one of ashes and mistakes, things would be good. He's willing to take what he can get these days.

"Tell Strong no," she says softly. "Get out of the job, deal, whatever it is. Don't go near Sonja or James again."

He should've seen this coming. "I can't do that, Fi." There's too much at stake, too many people who'll get hurt, including her.

She's quiet for awhile, says finally, "I can't keep doing this. I can't be with you and watch you do this thing with Sonja. Just stop. I'll break things off with Carlos before the day's over, do whatever you want. Just – stop."

"Is it Sonja that's bothering you, or the job?" Because if it's only Sonja, he'll figure out a way to cut the woman out of the picture. He'll try, at least.

"Both."

He can't fix this, not yet. If he pulls out now, James will have them all killed, probably while they sleep. Fi, his mom, Jesse and Sam. Even if James doesn't order their execution, Stern will have them all thrown into a holding facility, probably forever. "I can't."

"I –" She stops, sighs. "Then don't expect me to play along. Don't make me watch while you go down this road."

Even that's not something he can promise.

[]

When James' men came for her, she was sitting on the floor in Madeline's livingroom, playing dinosaurs with Charlie. Madeline answered the door, and she didn't pay much attention to what was going on until the two men shouldered past Madeline, walked towards her and Charlie. Then she was on her feet in an instant, Charlie tucked behind her.

"Get out of my house," Madeline told the two men, her voice a mixture of anger and fear.

Oh, but she knew what was going on here. She'd seen it more than once when she was a little girl. Soldiers barged through the door, went for her father, sometimes beating him bloody, sometimes taking him away. All while she and her mother and brothers stood by, too afraid to do anything because their actions could result in more trouble for their father. Watching the beatings had been awful; watching him be taken away had been worse. They'd never known if he was going to come back.

Now it was happening again, only to her, with an old woman and a child forced to watch.

So this was why her father had never resisted, never fought back when they came for him. Resistance would only increase the misery of the observers.

She was so angry, she strongly considered fighting. She wasn't armed, but she could use any one of Madeline's possessions as a make-shift weapon. But one of the men was standing very, very close to Madeline, and his right hand was straying towards his back. It didn't take a genius to know he had a gun, was getting ready to use it.

"You know, I forgot all about our appointment," she said, smiling brightly. "Thanks for picking me up. You boys are so kind." She briefly smiled at Charlie. "Be a good boy, now. I have to go."

"Bye," the boy said, going back to his toys.

"I'll call you later," she told Madeline. "Everything will be fine." She met the older woman's eyes, nodded reassuringly.

She hadn't been this angry, this furious, since Anson had been around. Silently she went with the men, handed over her cell phone when asked, endured a pat-down, went where they told her and did what they said. They were unflinchingly polite, didn't threaten her. Not with words – the underlying flavor of violence was in every gesture, every direction. So she waited.

Jesse and Sam were already there when they brought her to the warehouse. Her two friends glanced at each other when they saw her, and she made a small gesture to show she was fine.

One of James' men pulled out a chair for her; she sat down and smiled up at him. "Thank you," she said sweetly, when what she really wanted to say was something much, much more violent.

"Got you, too, huh?" Jesse asked quietly.

She just looked at him.

"Don't do it, Fi," Sam warned softly. "I know what you're thinking. Wait a few minutes, let's figure out what's happening."

Then Michael showed up, giving her anger a focus, if not a target. She didn't care what the gig was – pulling a small child into the mess wasn't part of the deal. Ever.

"I was with Charlie, when they came for me," she told Michael flatly. They'd had more than one conversation about this, back in their early days. He knew events like this were part of the reason she'd joined the army. She'd told him the special kind of hell it had caused her family.

And now it seemed like this event hardly bothered him at all.

James arrived, explained all of this had been designed to corner them into working a job – or, a mission, as he termed it. She wanted to tell him that missions were for zealots and fools, but she didn't.

Michael caught up to her as they were leaving the warehouse. "You alright?"

"Fine," she snapped, not looking at him.

"And my mom and Charlie?"

There was genuine worry in his voice, and it made her even more angry. "They're fine, too. Physically. But you know – Michael, if they pull another stunt like this, I'll fight. There'll be blood, and it won't all be mine. Tell your new friends that."

She quickened her step, moved away from him, still so angry that if she had a gun, she'd probably shoot the first man to cross her path, including Michael.

[]

He feels like a fool. He'd actually believed James when the man said his friends would be safe, that they were all part of a large team working to accomplish a very worthwhile goal. Well, he's done his part, and as a reward, he gets to look at a weak weasel of a man who tells him Fi is dead. This man is an idiot, can't be trusted to know the difference between dying and dead. "Did you see her die?"

"There was nothing I could do for her," Synder says. It's no comfort that the man looks genuinely sorry. He's useless – less than useless – dangerous, because he's trustworthy just enough to make others think he's reliable.

Inside the burning warehouse, everything is smoke and flames and chemical vats which are going to explode in the very near future. Simply trying to see a few feet ahead of him is hard, and no matter how loudly he calls Fi, she doesn't answer. Finding her is blind luck. She's flat on the floor, another shadow cast by the growing flames, locked into the little corner where she'd been trapped. It's no kind of easy to get to her, and even when he does, getting them both out is worse.

"If they pull another stunt like this, I'll fight," she'd told him.

So will he. James likes to talk about trust? Let's see him explain this.

To the credit of the rest of James' crew, they do take Fi's condition seriously. It's the most efficiency he's seen in a field hospital for quite awhile.

"There's probably not going to be any lasting harm," one of the doctors/nurses tells him, not unkindly. "Unlike that hand of yours. You're going to have a nasty scar."

He'll add it to his collection.

She almost looks like a child, so still and quiet. It's only because the bed is large, he knows. At least the oxygen mask is gone, so she doesn't look like she's about to die at any moment.

When she opens her eyes and sees him, she smiles. He has no idea why. She still has a cough, and it makes him remember the time she'd gotten so sick because she forgot to take the antibiotics.

James' idea of making things right is to execute Snyder. As it turns out, he's willing to accept that kind of apology.

[]

Michael was either loosing some of his skill or she was getting much, much better at following him. Maybe he was so focused on where he was going or what he was about to do, he simply wasn't paying attention to much else. She recognized the shape of the bag he carried, didn't have to guess what was inside. Put that together with the fact that he was leaving in the dead of night – James had assigned him some job ("mission") that required a stealth killing, an assassination.

Great. This was probably going to wreck havoc on Michael later, when the agency job was over. If it was ever over.

He was definitely going somewhere he didn't want to be followed. Doubling back, pulling into empty lots and looking for tails. . . It was worse when he finally stopped, took the bag and went down a footpath towards the water. This was his type of ground, not hers. She was better in urban areas, never had much cause to track someone over open terrain. He'd made a career out of it. So she didn't follow him directly. She went down aways, went along the edge of the brushline until she saw him loading things into a small boat. Then she went back up to the path, was amazingly close to him before he turned, startled, aiming a weapon at her.

"It's just me," she said quickly.

That didn't seem to reassure him. Actually, it seemed to set him more on edge. "You have to go."

Since when had he ever tried to send her away? Well, maybe once or twice, but it had been a mutual decision, not an order. She didn't take orders, and he knew it.

This James – he was dangerous. Everyone already knew that. But for Michael, he was dangerous in a different way. She was convinces James fit into the same category as Larry, Strickler, and Card. People who were dead and deserved to be. People who had a special talent for convincing Michael that right was wrong and wrong was right.

"I know how to draw the line," he told her, and she absolutely didn't believe him.

[]

"Sometimes you get used to the wrong things." His mother had told him that recently. He's starting to believe she's right, just not in the way she'd intended.

James and his organization aren't doing terrible things. Their methods are occasionally brutal, but their goals are not the destructive accomplishments Stern claims they are. Tactics are learned, can be changed. Intent is another matter. Was the agency really any different? Better? He'd been asked to do awful things when he worked for the government, was still being asked to do them.

Sam and Jesse – if they were part of James' organization, they'd agree with him. They simply don't have access to the information that he has. He can convince them, he's sure. He just needs to figure out the Stern aspect. He's almost to the point where he thinks James' network and connections could protect them, all of them.

Even Fi. She's the one flaw in his emerging plan. Not a flaw – a complication. A sticking point. But she's coming around, too – she'd asked for his help when she needed it. Asked for the resources of James' organization. That was huge step for her. And, yes, her boyfriend is gone, but they guy was only there to entertain her; Carlos' departure is convenient, because now he doesn't have to get rid of the man.

Fi's real problem with the organization is Sonja. Sonja will have to go away before Fi truly considers any ideas about James' group. He can convince her, he knows he can. She's always hated the agency, and when he finally leaves it, she'll reconsider. After all, what she'd said was that he had to divorce the agency in order to reopen the discussion about them – not that she wouldn't accept working with any organization at all. And Fi will be a great replacement for Sonja: more contacts, more experience, far better tactics. She'll be an incredible asset, will be able to help him alter the aspects of the organization that need to be adjusted. It'll be a perfect fit. But not with Sonja around.

His plans solidify when Simon shows up, leading one of Strong's teams. His doubts scatter like ashes, leave him with the gritty taste of loss. All those years, all that effort, all for the agency. He'd left Fi for the agency, threw away time. . . all those fights, all the grief. No wonder she'd been so angry at him.

He'll make this work.

[]

It was time to follow one of her rules. She'd been trying to avoid it. It was a damn shame when one of her own rules worked against her. There wasn't even anyone to be angry with: just the rule, the one she'd made a long time ago.

No more lying to herself.

Michael wasn't drowning anymore. He was unconscious and underwater, convinced he was able to better live there than up on land. James' insidious words had gotten to him, convinced him that horrific means could justify worthy ends. She knew it hadn't been a tough sell: the agency had been doing it for years. Michael had replaced one set of lying bastards with another. A much, much worse set, if she was honest. And it was finally time to be honest.

This wasn't going to be fun. Her life didn't involve fun anymore. Too bad – she'd liked her old life, would go back to it, if she could. So long as she could find a way to drag Michael back with her, anyway.

Standing before Madeline, telling her the truth – it was worse than when she'd had to tell her mother she'd accepted Armand's help and was leaving Ireland. She'd never thought she'd have to tell Madeline her last son had fallen prey to a madman. Breaking the news of Michael's death – she'd envisioned that more than once, even considered what gentle words to use. Now she stumbled over herself, her own words like a handful of marbles, so easy to scatter and so hard to collect.

Madeline wasn't as surprised as she could have been. The older woman was angry and sad and scared, but not surprised. Michael was her son, and she knew him in all his shades of grey.

It said something important that Madeline believed what she had to say. It meant even more when the older woman accepted her escape plan.

She would never consider asking Madeline to set fire to her own house. The grandmother wouldn't know how, anyway. She really, really wished Madeline didn't have to see the glint of a flame or a wisp of smoke, but they all had to stay very, very close together. She knew the grief of watching everything turn to ash. She couldn't save Madeline from that grief, but between the two of them, they were able to hide it from Charlie.

Maybe that was the most important thing. Maybe that was all there was left.

[]

Strong is a dead man. The agent has earned himself a death sentence by turning his friends and family against him. He knows Strong lied because there isn't a chance in hell his mom and Sam and Jesse would work against him. And what horrendous story has Strong told to Fi, the one person who never believes anything about him unless she sees it for herself?

He's suspicious when Sam tries to sell him some line about Fi threatening his mom. But something is wrong, very wrong, and he can't quite figure out what. Fi, Jesse, his mom – no will will answer their phone. James' men call to say Fi set a fire, abducted Charlie. Fi must be working under a threat, some form of duress.

Sam must be, too, because the ex-Seal accuses him of being a traitor, of betraying Nate and everyone else. It's insanity, the things his best friend says. He doesn't have time for it. James is on the way in, and Sonja is on her way out. Stern is behind this disaster with Sam.

He'll work out the details with his friends later. Once he explains things, puts to rest whatever lies Stern has told them, they'll understand. He'll make them understand.

Sonja is waiting for him up on the roof, where James will be arriving. She's not happy about his absence, but decides to overlook it since he's returned in time to carry out the mission. Once James decreed she was to stay with him, Sonja had dropped any issues of betrayal. That's a big change from Fi, one he could get used to. Sonja knows how to let things rest.

After Sonja goes to check something with a guard, he hears the roof door open a few minutes later and assumes she's returned. But it's not Sonja – it's Fi.

This is a disaster, or will be in a few brief minutes. He doesn't have time to explain things or dispel lies or even reassure her that everything will be fine. There's just not enough time.

He's had this idea before, that there's never been enough time for them.

"You have to go, right now," he tells her.

And she won't. He's seen this stubbornness from her before, had lived with it for years. While that feels like a lifetime ago, it's not so distant that he can't remember she always won these kind of fights. In the past. Not now – this situation is too deadly for him to back down now. He can't, won't. Not this time.

Sonja returns and things start spiraling downwards. He needs a minute to figure things out, find a way to reconcile the two parts of his life that have decided to collide. Sonja is furious; whether it's because Fi is threatening the mission or because he's allowing Fi to do it, he's not sure. Both, probably. Fi, the woman who has always been the poster child for guns and threats – she's calm, doesn't yell or even draw a weapon against Sonja, who is obviously on the verge of causing serious harm.

Fi just stands there, saying very little. Or maybe she's saying a lot, but Sonja's voice is drowning her out. Her cool is shaken, however, when Sonja says she needs to be handled.

"What does that mean?" Fi demands, although she's not stupid, knows full well what that means. Still, she doesn't even try to defend herself, only raises her chin in her usual tradition of defiance. She looks at him, her best Are you going to just stand there? expression.

"If you won't do it, I'll do it myself," Sonja says, exasperated.

Like killing Fi is just another chore on a list.

And Sonja means it. The woman doesn't say things simply to get a reaction. When Fi is dead, James' second will either leave her where she falls or throw her body off the roof, if it's in the way. Doesn't matter one way or the other to Sonja.

"How do you see things ending between us?" Fi had asked him once.

Not like this. Never like this.

A long time ago he'd made this decision: better to fight with her than to live without her.

No exceptions.

[]

If she believed in psychotherapy, she'd sign up for years of treatment.

It wasn't funny. None of it was funny: not almost being exterminated by a madman, not jumping into deep water without knowing what was waiting below the surface. Certainly not Madeline's death. Too much, that was the problem – too much stress in too little time.

She was trying not to think too much. Later, when there was time and a degree of privacy, she was going to cry like a little girl. Now was only about putting one foot in front of the other, doing what needed to be done.

Michael had just spent most of the day (and yesterday) demonstrating his suicidal tendencies. Whatever the reason, he decided not to take her with him. That was a good sign, all considered. And when they'd pulled themselves out of the water – soaked and exhausted and no little surprised that they were both still breathing – he'd smiled at her, a real smile, the one she hadn't seen in quite awhile.

They found Sam, bruised but not broken, the data logs still in his possession. "Decided not to get blown up today, huh?" he asked, trying to sound bright. But he cuffed Mike across the shoulder (none too gently), and briefly patted her arm (also none too gently.) "Guess we better go get Jesse and Charlie, then." He didn't say Madeline's name, but it hung in the air.

"I'll get us a ride," she said, giving Sam a significant look.

Sam's eyes slid to Michael, and he nodded.

Still, when she left them, she had a knot of fear in her throat. It was the same way she'd felt when she'd gone back to New York to ready for another relocation. So much concern that he wouldn't be there when she returned, and she wouldn't be able to find him again for a long time, if ever.

High risk, high reward.

They were still there, both of them, when she came back.

"Why do you always pick the convertible?" Sam complained. "They have crappy back seats, all of them."

"I don't take requests. Next time, you can get the car." Not that she hoped there'd ever be a next time. She couldn't go through this again.

For once she drove the speed limit, obeyed all traffic signs, avoided even a hint of aggressive driving. Not fun. Getting to the boat house was a huge relief.

"This is where you were trying to take me," Michael said, glancing back at Sam. "Isn't it?"

"It's where we stashed the papers," Sam answered gently. "The fake passports, to get us all out of Miami."

Michael looked at her. "You made a set for me, too, didn't you." Not quite a question.

She only nodded, not looking at him. She didn't have time for emotional whatevers.

"Damn straight, brother," Sam said. "You were going with us, like it or not. Drugged, beaten, or otherwise."

"Great," Michael replied, sounding almost amused.

That was another good sign.

Jesse was already at the boathouse, waiting for them. She hugged him, dangerously close to crying. "Where's Charlie?"

"Inside, sleeping." Jesse held up a baby monitor. "Best invention ever for single parents." He saw Michael and Sam. "Hey – you guys look like hell."

"And Fi doesn't?" Sam returned.

"Nah. She looks like a drowned rat." Turning serious, Jesse hesitated, then started, "Mike – your mom-"

"I know," Michael said. "It's okay."

Which could mean a lot of things. She was tired, only had so much energy left, couldn't waste it on things that could wait.

Jesse had pizza and soda sitting next to a police scanner on the counter. The kitchen was one of the only rooms completely remodeled in the boathouse, but furniture hadn't been included. They sat on the marble tile around one lit flashlight, downing the pizza like it was gourmet food.

"No beer?" Sam asked.

"Couldn't find your brand," Jesse answered.

The data logs sat on another counter, waiting for them to make some real decisions. Those decisions needed to be made soon. The day's adrenaline was disappearing fast and the food wasn't helping much.

Charlie continued to sleep soundly in the bedroom down the hall. They kept their voices low – no one wanted to wake him.

"I'm not running," Jesse said finally. "I'll go to the agency with Sam to turn in the tapes." He held up a hand to silence the protests. "Guys, they either lock me up or let me go. But I'm not going to run. This little adventure is finished. I want to start over, or pick up where I left my real life."

"Me, too," Sam agreed. "This is done – at least, it will be soon. I want to be with Elsa, and if that means hashing it out with Strong... Well, it's worth it."

She already knew what Michael was going to say, probably even before he did. He was going to take the tapes to Strong, ask the agency to leave the rest of them alone. It might even work – Strong would want Michael as a cooperating witness, might be willing to make a deal. She wasn't going to fight with him. She'd done all of her fighting, was sick and tired of fighting and running and loosing.

One more time. She could start over one more time. She was taking Charlie with her, and he needed a stable place to grow up. And she needed a stable place to rest.

"I'm sorry I can't be the one to hand them in," Michael told Sam. "Wherever we end up. . . When it's safe, I'll contact you. Both of you," he added, looking at Jesse.

It took a minute for his meaning to set in. When it did, she laughed. It was either laugh, or start crying. "I thought you were going to say something different," she explained, rubbing the back of her neck.

"I'm sure you did," Michael said, not looking at her.

"It's fine, Mike," Sam told him. "This is the best chance you're ever going to get to play dead. I mean, if Larry can do it. . ."

"And we should go tonight," Jesse added. "Otherwise, all kinds of law enforcement will be looking around, trying to find a clue about what happened."

Tomorrow there would be time to be sad about all of this. Today still wasn't over.

It was hard to watch her friends leave. She should be good at people leaving by now, but she wasn't. Didn't want to get better at it, either. Was tired of having to try.

She didn't know what to do with Michael. She'd kind of figured her life was going to end on a rooftop the previous day, and every moment since then had been instinct or improvisation.

The two of them checked on Charlie, who was still dead to the world. Michael pulled up the blanket, tucked it around him, ran a gentle hand over his head.

Back in the kitchen, Michael poured her another Styrofoam cup full of soda. She said, "Yeah, let's have more caffeine, because I'm not jittery enough already."

"You really want to drink the water out of these pipes?" Michael returned, gesturing at the kitchen sink.

"I've had enough of water today, thank you." Although she did wonder if one of the showers in the place might work. Even if it wasn't hot water, she'd still be happy.

Michael leaned back against one of the counters and looked at her. "What was the plan?"

She shrugged. "Take the papers, get out of Miami. Scatter. Hope for the best. Leave a message in a pre-arranged location if there was an emergency. We decided it would be safer if we didn't all stay together." She couldn't see his expression in the vague light. "Your mom and Charlie were coming with me. Back to Ireland."

He looked up at the ceiling. "Too risky – "

" – Says the man who ran out of an exploding building and jumped headlong into a river." She smiled to take the sting out of her words. "Besides, I'm about to be the safest woman in Ireland. Do you know what my family would do to protect my little boy?"

Michael barely needed a second to figure it out. "You were going to say you're Charlie's mother."

"Have the birth certificate and everything. Sean was the last one to see me. I made up a few dates, made it all line up." She was bouncing among emotions, fell briefly into the side of amusement. "If I was already pregnant when Sean was here, it fits. I just didn't tell my family before because – well, it's so painful, having to raise a child alone."

"Tell me you didn't say I was the father."

"Madeline was coming with me. She's his grandmother. . ."

"You told your family I walked out on you and our kid?" Michael asked. "Fi, your brothers will hunt me down and kill me."

"I gave you a few years' head start," she offered.

He actually laughed, ran a hand over his face. "Call them. Say I came back. Say you were kidding before. Just say something that won't get me shot." He sobered after a minute. "You really think that's the best place?"

She poured herself more soda. "Michael, I don't know how to raise a child. But I know I can't do it alone. My mother, my brothers. . . You know I have a big family there. Charlie will blend, and so will I, if I try really hard. Take a new name, stay under the radar. It's been a few years. If I'm quiet, no one will know I've gone back."

"You're you, Fi," he said. "You left for a reason."

"Several reasons," she corrected. "And I'm standing next to one of them."

He stepped closer, seemed like he was trying to see her expression. She turned her face upwards, not trying to hide.

"And me?" he asked. "What was the plan for me?"

"We hadn't really decided," she confessed. "Depended on how we got you out."

He was quiet for awhile, finally said, "I know we have things – a lot of things – to work through."

Perhaps the understatement of the century.

"I guess what I'm trying to say – I mean – " He stopped. "Do you want us to try to start over?"

That decision had been made a long time ago, back when a housekeeper had called her because she was an emergency contact in some mystery man's wallet. But she wouldn't be content with a maybe, didn't have it in her to look at the future and think she'd have to go through all of the heartache again. "I don't want to do this again, Michael. I just can't. Tell me the truth: are you done with the agency?"

He didn't hesitate. "Finished. Makes it easier, since they think I'm dead."

The answer sounded remarkably close to something the old Michael would say. "How's your accent these days?"

He smiled down at her. "Not bad. It'll get better with practice, I'm sure."

Now he sounded exactly like the man she'd first met, and that was incredibly tempting.

Any terms, any conditions.

How about no terms, no conditions?

She held up her syrofoam cup. "Here's to starting over."

This wasn't going to be easy, but it might be fun.

Not easy.

Fun.

[end]


End file.
